


Death in America

by Eye_of_Purgatory



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Colonial America Hetalia, Growing Up, Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, Human & Country Names Used (Hetalia), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Violence, Witch Hunts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:21:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24173548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eye_of_Purgatory/pseuds/Eye_of_Purgatory
Summary: America could see ghosts, but most of all he could see the man that stood before all men as they died. He could see the one who called himself death, but it was hard to believe that when the ever-so-like-Arthur man would correct his speech and comfort him when he was sick.
Relationships: America & England (Hetalia)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 56





	1. The first memories

**Author's Note:**

> Hope ya like it!

The first time Alfred truly saw the man was just after the evil newcomers had scared off his mother, the mother he remembered only in dreams that passed away like water. But he remembered this moment, the cold room the pilgrims left him in, the feel of the floor on his feet, the man who stood there.

**Hello small child** he greets, voice soft and breathy, the man Alfred remembers having met before but no such meetings rise to his mind as memories. His stature is familiar, tall and dark and ever so soft looking. If Alfred screws up his eyes correctly he can see right through him, but thinks nothing of that.

“Hi. Who are you?” Alfred asks with all the frankness that only exists in small children, reaching out his small hands in order to touch the strange man’s robe. But his hands pass right through.

**I am Death** The voice is soothing to Alfred, who continues to try to grab pieces of the robe. After a few attempts he realizes that if he really pays attention he can grab hold of a very sandy, windy, and light fabric.

“Why did your mother name you that? That's not very nice of her.” He pouts, and the being laughs. Crouching down to see the small child Death lays his hands on his lap, and when Alfred reaches out to touch his hand it is very cold. Colder by far than the child that seeps through the walls.

**I have no mother to name me, I am Death.** His hood falls back to reveal a face of vaguely human qualities, grey unlike any person could ever achieve, eyes of inhuman green, and coarse black hair. Death observes Alfred’s very human hand,  **Your mother named you, ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛, didn’t she?**

For some strange reason the only thing Alfred’s memory leaves out is his name, the memory seemingly jumps from the very start Death says his name to the very end. Whenever he would ask Death the man would simply shrug to why that could be.

“How did you know that!” Alfred yelps, jumping up and looking at the man with suspicion, almost like a threatened deer. 

**I can read your soul little one, you are an open book.** Death tuts, staying still and calm, Alfred watches as a droplet of water falls on him. Though the water passes right through, landing in the small puddle Death kneels on. After a moment Death looks back up at Alfred, **Your mother left you here little one?** He asks, concern leaking into the voice although his face is static and unchanging.

“No! She’ll be back.” He huffs but Death doesn’t respond to that, pouting at the floor that won’t feel any warmer, pouting at the door that has a handle just out of his reach, “I remember you Mr. Death!” Alfred says, snapping out of his bad mood and smiling. Death gives something that almost could be a smile.

**That is why I seeked you out young one. Nobody else can see me.** Edging closer to Death, Alfred stares, suddenly entranced by the eyes that are certainly translucent and certainly glowing,  **Just Death is fine.** Death’s wind like voice says, and If Alfred really tries he can hear the faint notes of the words seconds after they are said, carried around ethereal atmosphere. A sudden chill leaves Alfred shivering violently.

“It’s so cold in here, when will they be back?” He asks, wanting to cry when he feels his stomach rumble as well, “I’m hungry.” comes the rest of the words shortly after, and Death stands up.

**Here you go young one, I will be back soon** Death says, as while talking he has managed to procure a cloak very similar to his from a place Alfred does not remember. Death drapes it over his shoulders and fades into nothing. The cloak is surprisingly warm, thick, and snugly. A few minutes death returns with a still warm pie, and Alfred doesn’t think to question.

“Thank you Death.” He mumbles through mouthfuls of the quite delicious apple pie, the sweet taste foreign on his tongue. 

**I do not wish for you to die young one.** Death disappears before the words have even left his mouth, the sound seemingly echoing from where he once was. 

  
  


-

“Who are they Death?” Alfred asks, looking up to Death and over to the men. Two men, blonde like many of the pilgrims, wearing strange clothing. Another man behind them seems to be looking for something. Alfred goes back to looking for the little creature he saw there earlier, Death said that it was a bunny but how could he know that. Alfred was pretty sure it was a squirrel.

**They are beings like you** Death says, looking vacantly at the men who have now started to look through the grass at the edge of their clearing. Maybe they’re looking for the Squirrel too?

“Can they see you too?” Alfred asks, tugging on the robe to get Death to look back at him. He turns his face to Alfred, quirking his lips into something of a smile before starting to talk.

**No, you are still unique in that**

“What does unique mean Death?” Alfred asks, deciding to abandon the Squirrel hunting mission to the men in favor of paying attention to the far more interesting Death. Maybe not far more interesting, but still more.

**It means, one of a kind, like a good different** Death kneels down to Alfred and gives him the perhaps first touch Death has initiated, placing a hand in his,  **You should go over there and say hello** He says, squeezing Alfred’s hand in his very cold one before pointing at the men. Alfred starts to walk over at the insistence, watching the men as he can start to catch snippets of what they say.

“Come here, come over here America. Don’t you want to play with me forever and ever?” The shorter one calls when Alfred walks past the clearing, but freezes, the man sounds terrifying and he wants to go back to death right now. But when he looks around and Death has gone Alfred can’t help the tears that fall, turning into a loud event of sobbing.

“Stop it you’re scaring him! You’re even freaking me out right now!” The one with longer hair calls out, holding up a plate of wonderful looking food. “Now come here, this wonderful french food is waiting for you to shove into your tiny screaming pie hole.” The man continues, and the wonderful offer makes Alfred forget his previous fear and walk over. When the scary man starts speaking something again Alfred looks over, only to see the man crying like Alfred just was.

He looks back at the long-haired man, and to the crying man. He doesn’t look so scary like that, and Alfred just wants the man to feel better. Nobody deserves to cry! 

“Um are you ok?” He asks as he walks over, watching as the not-so-scary-anymore man looks up with tear stained eyes. He looks shocked and confused, and Alfred can’t stand it. He wants to hug the man but the mother that fades in his memories always told him it was rude to hug strangers. 

“Why does noone like me, pooh.” The long haired man pouts, and Alfred decides to hug the man who was crying, because hugs make everyone feel better.


	2. Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two encounters, Alfred's fear of the concept but not the man, and Arthur's house.

“What’s wrong Arthur?” Alfred asks, intermittently jumping and trying to bodily pull himself onto the writing desk so that Arthur would notice him. Something had hit him wrong the moment he walked through the door and saw his guardian’s head down on the desk.

“It’s,” Arthur looks up with red rimmed eyes and down at Alfred, “don’t worry about it, America. Everything will be alright.” he soothes, ruffling Alfred’s hair even though he refuses to stop trying to jump on the desk. Now he wants to read the crumpled letter.

“You were crying! And you said that I was only supposed to cry if something was really really bad.” Alfred screws up his face, reaching a small hand out to grab the letter before it is slapped away.

“I should be used to this already, America, however a letter just arrived this morning. My dear King James has passed away this last month.” England sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. But something major seems to have just escaped just beyond Alfred’s reach, he squints his eyes like it’s words attempting to flee from his view, a small crease forms between his brows as if he was asked a question in Latin. 

“Hey big brother? Why’d he die?” America asks, and when Arthur looks down to the child the blue eyes seem almost unnaturally bright.

“His Majesty died of the flux on the twenty-fifth of March, I had no idea that his death was imminent.” Arthur stands up, pushing the letter with the news Alfred knows to be bad out of the way and onto the floor. As Arthur walks out of the room Alfred follows behind like a small duck.

“I didn’t mean  _ that _ .” Alfred pouts, grabbing onto Arthur’s hand with the strength that neither recognize or mention is far too much for a colony, “Why did his Majesty die?” he asks with the sole minded attention of only a small child.

“Because humans die, of many reasons and ways but none are immortal. Some stories say that people can live forever but they are wrong.” Arthur ends up saying after a bit, deciding to pick up Alfred in order to counteract the grip on his wrist.

Arthur walks the two of them to Alfred’s room in relative silence, Arthur happy for the quiet and deciding that it was far too late for the child to be awake, and Alfred lost in thought.

“Will we die?” Alfred innocently asks Arthur when the man places the child under the covers, face looking like he does whenever he’s England and not Arthur.

“Yes America, one day far in the future. Do not worry about it now.” England mutters, running a hand through Alfred’s hair in something that was clearly intended to be a soothing motion.

“But I don’t want to die! I don’t want you to die either.” Alfred cries out in protest, catching his guardian off guard. The man simultaneously feels a violent twitch of frustration, as well as a burning guilt.

“Everyone has to die America, even mighty Rome fell.” Arthur presses a kiss to Alfred’s forehead, standing up and making his way to the door. Alfred watches, distressed, from his bed. Looking out desperately at England as the man walks away.

“But I don't want to die!” Alfred wails, crawling out from the covers to run across the room, latching on to Arthur’s ankles in a hold of desperation. Tears stain the pant legs that Alfred clutches to for dear life.

“Goodnight America.” Arthur soothes, worming his way out of America’s grip, placing him back on the bed and tucking him in. This time when Arthur leaves, Alfred stays solidly on the bed.

After what seems to Alfred like minutes, hours, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was an entire day, there is a black figure at the doorway to interrupt his fear from stewing. 

“Death?” He asks, fear condensing at the surface of his skin and dripping to the floor already with the first appearance of the man. The figure looks up in a way that shows the glowing green of his eyes.

**What is wrong, are you alright?** Death asks, venturing closer to the bedside and sitting down. A cold hand reaches out to touch his forehead, almost like Death was trying to check his temperature. Tears begin to well in America’s eyes, causing Death’s hand to jerk back in shock.

“Please Death, don’t kill me ever!” Alfred sobs, reaching out for Death with small innocent hands.

**I-h** America wraps his arms around Death’s waist in strong hug, muffled pleas said into the black robe he adorns,  **I promise America. I will not let you die.** Death says, his hand on Alfred’s head is surprisingly comforting.

Alfred takes his head out from Death’s chest, looking up with a tear stained face and red eyes, “Thank you Death.” he says with a small smile, “I promise that I’ll love you forever and ever!” he continues with a yell, smiling large with the most grateful expression he has ever had.

**I hope that you will go through with that promise little America.**

“I promise promise!” Alfred cheers, looking up at the strange look on Death’s face. But that look turns into a small smile when Alfred manages to fall asleep almost an hour later.

-

On a bright sunny Saturday afternoon Arthur decided was the best day for gardening, Alfred had taken to wandering around and looking for interesting bugs. His bag holds three caterpillars and a beetle when Alfred notices Death looming awkwardly over a bush.

“We have black roses?” Alfred asks at the moment in which he sees the bush, a large and very elegant selection of roses, the outer ones a dirty sort of grey while the inner ones -these that are closer to Death- are incredibly black.

**You did not**

“Did you mess with big brother’s roses? I know you don’t like him but that’s mean.” Alfred pouts, looking around the enormous garden for any trace of Arthur, or some of the servants that generally patrol the area and keep Alfred out of trouble. When he sees none such people Alfred looks back at Death.

**I did not, but I apologize** Death probably sees the intense look of confusion on Alfred’s face, deciding to explain,  **They were white before but they turned black when I walked by**

“Why would they do that?” The child asks, deciding to attempt to mimic Death in the looming posture. But such attempt fails, Alfred falling to the floor with a dramatic crash and Death helping him back up.

**Black roses are an omen of death**

“Oooohhhh an omen. Can there be an omen of me too?” Alfred asks with a smile on his face. Plucking one of the black roses -because Arthur wouldn’t care about the ruined roses anymore anyways- Alfred carefully holds it in order to marvel at the strange sight.

**Perhaps I could attempt to make an omen of you** Death carefully plucks the rose from Alfred’s hand,  **But then the world would know of your existence**

“Oh.” Alfred mumbles, brightening up slightly when Death hands him the rose back with the thorns strangely dull. He pokes a thorn hard, and all that happens is a mildly painful indent on his finger.

“America! Where are you?” England calls out from the distance, seemingly only just realizing that Alfred had left to wander around. For a moment Alfred forgets that Death is invisible to other people, almost telling him to hide.

“I’m over here Arthur!” Alfred yells back, watching as his guardian walks over to him, walking over to meet Arthur halfway.

“Good, it’s about te-” Midway through the sentence Arthur stops, staring at the roses behind Alfred. England quickly grabs Alfred’s wrist “We need to get inside now America.” he says gravely, looking worried.

**Do you wish me to come with?**

Alfred nods to death’s question, though Arthur takes it as a yes to his question too, dragging the pair inside. Whenever Alfred tries to talk Arthur quiets him, the pair venturing through the entire house until they end up in Arthur’s secret room. 

“What are you doing Arthur?” Alfred asks while looking at the various vials and books on the shelves. Arthur looks minutes away from hyperventilating, and Death is quietly observing the items on a cluttered desk.

“Well, do you know about magic America?” Arthur asks, and Death freezes in order to stare at the ancient country. When Alfred doesn’t respond immediately Arthur tuts, sitting the child down at a sear in the center of the room.

“Yeah. You’ve only told me a thousand times!” Alfred says with all the secrecy of a firework, Arthur trying to quiet him again as a result. Although for the life of him Alfred can’t figure out why he would need to be quiet for this.

“Well in the magical world a black rose-” Arthur starts to lecture again like he always does, and because Alfred obviously knows the answer he decides to cut this off.

“Is an omen of death, yeah I know.” He responds, drawing an incredibly worried look from Arthur.

“How do you know that? Oh never mind. We need to ward the spirits of death off of you.” He tuts, wandering off to look through a large amount of cluttered drawers and different shelves for something. Eventually Arthur finds what looks almost like a rock, but dirty.

**I highly doubt that he can kill me. Oh. It’s rosewood.**

“What’s rosewood?” Alfred asks Death, but Arthur hears him and decides that the question was aimed at him.

“It should get rid of any nasty spirits around your aura, it won’t hurt. I promise.” Arthur walks over to America, lighting the small piece of wood on fire. Some old language is chanted while Arthur waves a ring of the smoke around Alfred.

**I did not know the magic is this advanced, although he has had years for this.** Alfred thinks he can see a proud look on Death’s face,  **It has an eerily similar effect to my magic, and Reapers stay away from such people.**

“Am I going to die Arthur?” Alfred asks, even though he doesn’t think so because Death promised him. But an omen is an omen and Alfred pays attention to theology class, even though Death calls it brain dead drivel.

“Not if I have anything to say about it”  **Not If I have anything to say about it.** The two say at the same time, creating an eerie echo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone likes this make sure to let me know in the comments, because then I will update more often


	3. Tic Toc

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred decides on a boring afternoon to explore. He soon wanders into a church and is entranced by the statue,

_ Tic _

Alfred stares, watches a statue of Death in the church, it has an unnerving quality to it. It looks both too little and far far too much like Death does. Does he really have a skeleton face and hands, just to hide it from America. That's unfair, those would look so cool.

_ Tic _

That would be all too rude, he concludes, Death knows just about everything about America so shouldn’t death not hide that from him. Maybe there were others like himself, maybe others could see death but never told Death, then those people would be the rude ones.

_ Tic _

Death was really nice, sometimes Death would make him sweets that tasted so much better than anything Arthur made him. Not like he was ungrateful, it was really nice whenever big brother made him food. He liked food, too much Arthur would say.

_ Tic _

Death would sometimes disappear for just a moment, then reappear with strange baubles and objects. Where did he get those? Alfred was torn between not minding and being incredibly interested, but the trinkets were fun. Whenever he asked Death to bring him with Death laughed, whatever that means.

_ Tic _

“Hi young man, are you here to pray?” A young nun walks in through the door, smiling and talking in a soft and light voice. She softly walks over to him, standing at his side to look up at the statue as well.

_ Tic _

“I wanted to see your cool statue!” America proclaims with a voice seeping in honesty, he never really prayed because whenever he would ask Death to explain parts of the bible Death was confused. Arthur says it’s true, but Alfred can’t help but doubt due to the constant strange looks Death throws at bibles.

_ Tic _

“It is wonderful isn’t it. It would be nicer if it was Jesus, but the priest is very adamant on this statue. He knows best, I must trust that.” She quietly says, eyes gazing up to the face of the statue with a concerned and hard smile. Alfred decides to look again, maybe it’s special and that’s why the priest has it.

_ Tic _

“Why not a statue of God?” Alfred decides to ask, because why not have a statue of the most important thing. But looking at the statue gets boring eventually, his eyes drifting off to the really dark walls. He vaguely notes to ask Arthur about new paints, because that one isn’t shining with light. Just thinking about thinking about paints makes Alfred feel more adult, and he grins as a result.

_ Tic _

“You have much to learn young man, but I have not seen you around our church before, why is that?” She asks of him, but he pays more attention to her strange attire. He’s heard of nuns before, but he barely ever sees them. 

_ Tic _

“Uhh my big brother says that we are protestant, whatever that means.” Alfred mumbles, the nice nun smiling a delicate smile before a sharp change. She looks tense, though Alfred doesn’t notice the shift. Looks are cast at the grandfather clock in a moment of silence.

_ Tic _

“I need to fetch father Williams, will you wait here young man?” The nun asks with a fairly calm voice, making Alfred wonder why she was so much calmer than Arthur always was. Maybe it’s because she’s one of Alfred’s people, and his people must be great.

_ Tic _

“Sure.” Alfred chirps, going back to mentally comparing the statue and Death. The statue is a lot taller, but his last governess said that art isn’t supposed to look exactly like real life. But this looks pretty similar to a real thing, he knows the statue isn’t supposed to be Death.

_ Tic _

Alfred thinks he should ask Italy about this, he’s heard that Italy really likes art. He decides that one day, the day when he meets the Italy that Arthur barely talks about, that he will ask about art.

_ Tic _

He wonders what Italy will look like, maybe the country will be tall like Arthur. He hopes Italy isn’t bad like France, Arthur always tells him to stay away from France. Hopefully Arthur will let him talk to Italy because even though the statue doesn’t look like death it still looks cool, and all that matters is if Italy will teach him art.

_ Tic _

Maybe Italy is a girl, but he’d never heard big brother talk about any girl countries. To be fair he hadn’t heard about any countries but France, Spain, and of course big brother. But he wasn’t allowed to talk to any of them anyways, so it was like he knew none of them. One day he’ll talk to everyone, and he’ll have so many friends!

_ Tic _

“That is him, father Williams.” A feminine voice says, and Alfred’s near daydream like thoughts are interrupted. The nice nun from earlier stands at the large doorway of the church, but next to a tall, old, kinda ugly man in robes. Determined to be nice to the nice people, Alfred waves at them with a large smile.

_ Tic _

“I do see what you mean. Will you fetch the townspeople dear?” The old man orders, seemingly making an effort not to look at Alfred. Well if he wasn’t going to look at Alfred, Alfred wasn’t going to pay attention to him either. He focuses his eyes on the skeleton face of the statue.

_ Tic _

“Yes Father.” The nice nun responds, after a small amount of time the large doors shut with a thump. He listens to the quiet noises of the priest walking closer to himself and then stopping.

_ Tic _

“Who is your mother, my son.” The man asks, so Alfred decides to break his vow of shunning the other and look up. He tries to think of a lie, but Arthur’s words come back into his mind.  _ Lies are for sinners, but you are never to let a human learn the truth _ , playing over in his mind in the British accent of Arthur's.

_ Tic _

“I don’t have a mom.” He settles with, it’s not a lie. A burning settles in his chest as he realizes it’s not the truth either, but he’s not supposed to tell people. The priest looks worried.

_ Tic _

“Well then, who is your Father, my son.” The priest asks while sounding really worried. Alfred wonders what's wrong, maybe the man is sad that he has no mom. Alfred has wondered what a mom would be like before, but he never thought very much about it.

_ Tic _

“I don’t have a dad.” Alfred mumbles, considering saying that Arthur is his dad. Death is kinda like a dad too, but he doesn’t know much of what dads are supposed to be like so he can’t say much on that. The priest looks stern now, like he needs a good laugh. Maybe he took big brother’s advice of a stiff upper lip literally. The man stops responding to Alfred, starting to walk away and to the door.

_ Tic _

“Hey mister,” he calls the attention of the man just barely, seeing him stop walking farther away, “does your dad call you Father when he goes to church?” Alfred loudly calls out to him, but the man still doesn’t respond. A shame, because Alfred had been wondering that for a while. He can always ask the next priest he meets though.

_ Tic _

Out of boredom Alfred starts to hum a song that Death once taught him, looking at the statue but mainly trying to get the notes right. Imagining the statue as Death worked a bit, because he could also imagine Death encouraging him. Alfred doesn’t notice the priest praying in the direction of the door.

_ Tic _

Alfred hears the door opening, turning around to see a large mob of people waiting at the entryway. Just as he starts to wonder why they’re here the large booming voice of the priest sounds out, yelling out words, screaming even. Alfred almost places his hands over his ears because of the incredibly loud echoing sound.

_ Tic _

“Yes, that is the witch! Look at the clock, look at the walls, look at the vase. None other than a witch could achieve such!” Father Williams shouts just as a small mob of people breach the entryway to enter, and everyone including Alfred looks to see what they mean. The grandfather clock instead of swinging is rocking against the pull of gravity, always on one side, always on Tic. The walls are dark, and seem normal. But there are candles, the candles are shining no light on them. A small bouquet of flowers have turned coal black in the corner of the room.

_ Tic _

“These are omens of death my people, we cannot let this boy bring dying to our town.” The priest continued, and Alfred felt scared into silence. Scared into silence as one of the mob grabs onto his hand, and he can’t even think to find the strength to resist. Enveloped into a crowd of people they start to bully him out the doors.

_ Toc _

“I didn’t mean it I promise. I don’t know what I did!” Alfred cries, tears streaming down his face as not one of the people seem to care about his pain. He’s their country, how could they do this to him. 

“Nice excuse demon child!” One young man screams into his ear, and suddenly Alfred sees. He feels himself propelled into the mind and hears every pain of Richard Halland’s 24 years, and 56 days. Alfred looks, he feels the death of little Robert, he feels the burning hatred of what they were born as and how much she wishes she could live as a woman. Alfred sees her mom being beat, he sees her lady love reject her. Alfred feels the pain of a smallpox infection that gave her permanent scars, and sees through her eyes the mass graves. He sees a beating from a redcoat and feels a burning hatred for everything about England, a foreign emotion that ravages his mind with an unfamiliar feeling.

He feels for the first time ever a connection to a person, maybe the first one he’s ever met who identifies as American above anything else. And Ms. Halland must feel it too, falling over and clutching her head in a way that releases her grip on his arm. He can’t find it in him to move, maybe because of fear that freezes, maybe he is being held back, maybe he is simply transfixed on the strange mix of female soul and male body.

“The demon has used his devilish powers!” The priest yells, and suddenly the crowd seems to get in a smaller ring around him, one he didn’t even notice when he was given a large berth. A sickle stabs into his back and comes out his front, and suddenly he is running. 

“Get him!” A voice shouts, and the people break into action. A woman grabs onto his arm, but he breaks her wrist in order to get free. A punch rains down from the crowd that he misses, but a kick from the opposite side knocks him to the floor. He just barely sees the teenager who drove the sickle into his back fall to the floor, crying and cradling the bloody weapon.

Thrashing for his life punches and kicks are absorbed, the child mainly focusing on fighting back from the attempts to restrain him. Each attempt to stand is met with ankles being grabbed or torches being waved. He refuses to cower, he refuses to give up, he must fight.

Jonathan Kimber who wants more than anything to see his infant daughter to the next year alive is given a kick that sends him falling into the people behind him. The crowd devolves into frantic screaming at something, just in the moment that Alfred feels the stabbing wound start to heal over.

Allison Holmes who thinks god will reject her soul tries to hit him in the head with a club, but before it can reach him Alfred has grabbed onto it as well and started a sort of tugging match. Elizabeth Halland drives a small knife into his fingers before he can easily tug over the club, making him drop it in surprise and pain.

Allison tries to hit him again with the club, but this time he dodges. This dodge was little more than a limp fall to the floor, and James Halland takes this as an invitation to press Alfred into the dirt with a boot, he raises his pitchfork and hesitates.

“Please!” Alfred cries, probably has been crying this whole time but more people press him to the ground with their feet. A foot presses into his legs, into his arms, into his face, arms push down his shoulders. But James Halland hasn’t stopped, shows no guilt for what is to come, and if Alfred could feel anything but fear he would think back to the memories of the Hallands that he watched. Of every face that now feels familiar because of the life that flashed before his eyes.

The pitchfork drives through his stomach, spearing him like a fish, and with the cheering as if he is one. People help hold the pitchfork as it lifts him up into the air, but the flashes of their identities are blinded by the pain. Everything hurts more than he can think, but he still struggles as they walk him to a nearby tree.

Alfred feels every moment where the mob waits for one of the people to tie a noose, each movement driving him further down on the spikes. His small hands grasp the handle, but each time he tries to use his strength he can’t focus. His screaming can be heard from the town over, but nobody seems to care.

They tie the noose to the tree on a branch that would be loath to have the strength to support a hanging. But he was light, young, just a child and it wouldn’t even bend the small branch. His neck is wrapped in the rope, but when he tries to reach up to the top of the knot his hands are tied together. 

They let him go, but to the pain of suffocation. Each breath is ripped from his chest before he can breathe it, panic more evident than ever. The adrenaline serves to slow down the horrific cycle of pain, each moment longer just so he can savor the feelings on his tongue like dung. His neck hurts, his lungs burn, his stomach bleeds more than ever because the pitchfork is now removed and resting on the floor.

He dies, and then slowly wakes up with bleary eyes. Only to watch the town again as they fail to help. He is long past screaming because of his burning lungs that hold no air, but tears continue to stream down his face. Just before the blackness forces himself to close eyes again he looks down, to see the disturbingly large puddle of blood.

He dies, and he dies, and he dies. And each time is like the first with panic and burning terror, because his body is new. He dies and is reborn with the breakneck speed of a young country, just to feel the pain. Each time he opens his eyes again there are less people watching him than before.

**America!** Alfred hears from far away, opening his eyes again to see nothing but his own blood on the ground. He closes his eyes again and feels the delirious pain of losing consciousness.  **Alfred? Alfred?** He hears called out, but thinks nothing of it, not even believing the hand on his arm only to lose consciousness again before he is lifted out of the noose.

He feels consciousness slowly return him like it has each and every time, but this time he feels the press of rocky ground to his back, and the feel of leaves on his arms.

“Ar-rthur?” He barely manages to croak out louder than a whisper at the feeling of a hand on his arm. The hand holds softly and grounds Alfred, but he doesn’t want Arthur to see the tear stained face because that’s just not brave.

**It is Death, I am sorry. I am so sorry.**

“A-am I dead?” Alfred asks, keeping his eyes closed because if he is dead maybe he won’t be able to see anything. Or maybe he’s in hell, but he would rather live in ignorance. 

**No** Alfred opens his eyes to the world around him now, looking up at Death’s face above his own and just almost seeing an expression of concern,  **But I can not say the same for the people who tried to do just that to you. Are you alright Alfred?**

“It-It al-lright.” He croaks out, throat burning in a way that makes him never want to talk again. Suddenly he is being draped with a robe that Death summons from wherever he gets everything else, like he is every cold night when nobody is there to see the new cloth.

**It’s. And no, no it is not alright. I should not have.** **There is no excuse, I am old enough to know better**

“I trust you.” Alfred mumbles, feeling himself drift off into the refreshingly pleasant unconsciousness as he tugs the robe around himself like a blanket.

**Oh.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope ya liked this, as always if you like this tell me. I love writing this fic, even if it will never get as much attention as some of my others.


	4. Morbid play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter of fluff! :)

“We have to look for the King, come on sir Percival. He is missing!” Alfred cheers, holding aloft a real sword he wasn’t supposed to have. Death watches with what could almost be a smile if Alfred didn’t know better. 

**We should check for intruders Sir Lancelot, we can never know.** Death holds a sword of his own up to match, but lacks the hastily modified armor that Alfred also wasn’t supposed to have.

“Good idea sir Percival!” Alfred responds, holding his head up in a strange imitation of a military general before running into the forest at breakneck speed to ‘check for intruders’. Death follows too, of course.

The pair return from the forest hours later, Alfred scratched up from brambles and red faced from both laughing and running. Death looks at him with the blank expression like he always does when Alfred laughs, and like every time he only laughs harder because of it. He doesn’t even think to ask why Death is helping him break all of these rules for the first time ever, but maybe he’s afraid of the answer. Maybe he’s afraid to learn that it’s for the same reason that without fail every pitchfork has disappeared from the barn, afraid to learn that it's for the same reason that Death has stayed by his side nonstop for months.

“Mister Alfred! What do you think you’re doing with that! Sir will be very displeased!” His governess yells from the garden, shocking Alfred something fierce and making him jump. The normally elegant lady runs over him frazzled, the very clear expressions on her face strange to Alfred.

“I’m sorry Governess.” Alfred replies almost on instinct, lowering his head as if he was. The young woman tuts, staring at his likely incredibly valuable and sacred armor, hanging off him loosely.

“You should be! Take it off now.” She orders, so Alfred removes the fancy plate armor and lays it on the ground next to him, looking up for approval. “Where in the heavens did it go?” Governess Elaine then shrieks, staring at the ground next to him. Alfred however looks over to see Death holding the plate armor clumsily, as if it would fall if Alfred nudged him. Alfred mainly hears the incredibly loud clanking of the armor in Death’s arms.

**Go along with it**

“Where did what go?” Alfred asks with all of the acting that he can muster, looking to Death with a few silent questions to ask. But Death is gone, disappeared from where he stood without even a puff of air.

-

Like he had for months now Alfred sits on his bed, alone, silently protesting the unfairly early bedtime put in place for him. In the summer half past eight is barely dark out! Without Death’s visits the nightmares had started again, filling his mind with images of bloody pitchforks and feelings of burning suffocation. On those nights he got no sleep, and Governess Elaine had interpreted this as Alfred going to bed too late.

“Death!” Alfred shouts at the first sign of those luminescent green eyes, bright like the moon but so green in a way that softly lights up the pitch black room. Running up to him, Alfred loudly whispers, “You’re back!”

**I missed you Alfred**

With the quiet words Alfred is hugging him, attaching himself like a monkey to Death like he usually would to Arthur. But unlike then, this time he gets to hug with as much strength as he wants.

“Missed you too! Why do you and Arthur have to leave so much. It’s not fair.” Alfred pouts, letting go and looking up to Death to see something that could almost be a smile.

**They are the same wars** Alfred tries to recall what’s being fought in Europe, but all he recalls is Arthur complaining about France's warmongering boss,  **I will try to make it up to you, how about we play games downstairs**

“I’m not allowed to go downstairs after bedtime. Governess Elaine will be mad.” Alfred tells Death, even though he decides to protest the rules he still doesn’t want the punishment. Death is incredibly late, and it must already be the next day.

**Her rules are arbitrary** Death says reflexively. Complete and utter darkness returns to the room again, but before Alfred gets worried the green light returns,  **She is out visiting a suitor, Miss Elaine will not know**

“Cool! I wanna show you something. It’s the goodest thing ever!” Alfred says, tugging on Death’s cold hand to bring him down the stairs..

**Best, the best thing ever. I would love to see**

“Shhh. Here mister buttons, come here!” Alfred calls out once they reach the bottom of the stairs, and even with this very loud and strange beckon, a small cat appears from behind a rocking chair. Alfred holds up the cat for Death to see, “This is mister buttons, Governess Elaine thinks that stray cats are mean but he is really nice.”

**I have brought gifts I thought you would like** Death seems to ignore the cat, and unknowingly the cat returns this action. Suddenly Death is disappearing for a moment, returning with a large ornate bag that he hands to Alfred. 

“Rock candy!” Alfred grins when he pulls out a smaller bag full of the wonderful sweet treat, putting it in his mouth without a second thought. 

**And a new deck of cards. The others can wait, do you wish to play war?**

“You’re on!” He says around a mouth full of candy, watching as Death shuffles the very intricate new cards. The world has mended itself and now to Alfred, everything is alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all like this! I do fic requests if anyone asks, and as always comment if ya liked it.


	5. A revolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred sees Death during the revolution, and tries his best to act like a normal day.

**You do not look well.**

“Prussia’s training is so difficult,” Alfred looks at Death’s cloak as to avoid the blank knowing gaze, “Yeah it’s from the lost battles.” he admits without Death needing to move in the slightest. The wind rages outside in a way that makes him feel so small, pushing at the canopy of the tent with a flood of cold.

**This happens to countries?**

“Yeah well I assume. He never really told me much, because I’d ‘never be my own nation’” The last few words are said in an awkward approximation of a British accent that sounds far more bitter than mocking. He watches as death’s gaze lands on the countless bruises, cuts, and burns.

**Perhaps that was to keep you with him?**

“Maybe.” Alfred trails off, looking at the ground as another short rush of pain results in a bruise on his left calf. After the pain ceases his gaze rises to the standing death’s, “I’ve missed you Death, haven’t really seen you much since the beginning of this war.” at the end of that morose mumbled tone he stands up, hugging Death as hard as he can because he can. The ghostly form always feels so real and solid, but hugging Death is like hugging a skeleton wrapped in thick cloth.

**I am never around much during wars.** Death soothingly says, but even as he speaks Alfred can’t feel Death’s chest rise with the telltale signs of breathing. Death wraps his arms around Alfred as well, making him feel secure in a way long lost,  **I attempt to join you in battles.**

“Yeah and you disappear midway through the fighting, well midway through the first volley.” Alfred says into the thick fabric of Death’s robe, absorbing the fact that Death is simply so cold, before ending the hug sharply.

**I try.**

The pair quiet after that, Alfred sitting down on his cot to cover himself with as many blankets as he can find, while Death looks through his supplies with an apparent scrutiny. Alfred focuses again on how the wind howls, feeling the burning cold almost comforting in how it forcefully brings his mind back to his humanity. If only he was human, if only, but every time he thinks of that all he can hear is England telling him how immature that is. How he was never destined to be a great country because he was still so attached to being a person.

He tried to think of something else, of something to distract his mind from the burning at the idea of being human. He could at least find solace in having a family, Death more familial than Arthur ever was. Alfred casts his eyes over to Death, the being currently trying to start a small fire out of wood that wasn’t in the tent before.

His mind flutters over to war, the nasty and painful sludge of bullets and disease, so different from the idealistic stories about knights and honor. He would be tempted to disbelieve these stories, but France and Prussia hold the same ones, the same sentiments.

“Wish I was a knight, it wouldn’t be as much lining up to get shot. And dying of pox and camp fever.” Alfred complains, watching as Death abandons the failed fire to pay attention to him. Death makes a thick cloak like his own appear, placing it over Alfred’s shoulders like he had that first time.

**Being a knight was not all fun as England would lead you to believe. Many died of disease as they do now.**

“Can you tell me about a knight?” Alfred then asks, knowing that Death would never make stories sound any better than they were, “Please?” he nearly begs.

**Alright** Death sits down beside Alfred, turning to look at him and the eyes and start the story,  **There was a man, about the age of France and Prussia. His name was James, and he was a knight during the first crusade.**

“Crusades?” Alfred asks, vaguely recalling the horrifyingly boring topic once told to him by Arthur, remembering little other than how much he wanted to leave and play at that moment. Though he knew of the basics, the pope sent catholics to go fight not-Catholics. When he recalls, he vindictively roots against the Catholics.

**Yes. James was not especially clever, and as many of the peasantry set out ahead of schedule, he was one of such people. And roughly as clever as a doormat, the knight did not bring enough food for the journey. James was not much of a godly man, and upon encountering a church he promptly led a raid. Killing roughly a hundred due to his actions.**

“Awful dude.” Monster would be a better descriptor, but humans are wonderful creatures that Alfred would never be able to describe as such. 

**I am not finished. The goal of the crusade was to travel to the holy lands, though on the way many encountered disease. James encountered a particularly nasty ailment, a bad camp fever where he defecated until death. He never reached a battle and spent the majority of his time brutalizing the innocent.**

“Any more of the story?” Alfred asks, thinking to all the men lost to exactly that ailment, and resisting the urge to chuckle anyway. No matter how real it is, the idea is still funny. A bit like godly judgement, even if Alfred wasn’t sure himself, it is a comforting idea.

**He raped many innocent people.**

“Oh. Was this a real story?” Alfred then asks, no matter how sure he is a lesson once taught sticks in his mind at this moment always. Question everything. And at this question to the person who taught him to do just that, Death gives his closest to a smile.

**No. Though all of those were true actions committed by crusaders. I did not connect actions to actors.**

“I get it, knights were terrible people. I can still be a hero, right?” Alfred asks a bit bitter, trying to crush whatever made him want to be one in the first place. 

**Of course, you are not like the knights**

“Thanks Death. Your storytelling almost makes me miss England’s though.” Alfred jokes, not missing the incredibly dull tales of medieval economics and marriages, told as if they were a list of chores. There's no reason to regret, the amazing freedom just within reach.

**It is alright to miss England. Leaving him meant leaving your entire family.**

“Not my entire family. If England was my big brother, and Mattie was my brother, I guess that could only mean you’re my Dad.” Alfred voices out loud, with barely enough of a thought to have second thoughts. 

**You will kill me one day.** Death says in the same tone he says everything in, hitting Alfred right in the heart with panic. Bringing up worried thoughts of being alone, of personally killing Death.

“Is this a prophecy or something? What’s wrong, are you ok? Did I do something wrong! I’m so sorry If I end up killing you, I don’t mean it!” Alfred panics in rising tone and volume, more terrifying ideas passing his head every second. Rising into a crescendo of a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for waiting this long to post this chapter, I kinda wanted to add a chapter before the revolution, but ended up rejecting the many that I drafted. Hope ya liked it!


	6. A Paris night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ready to sign the Treaty of Paris Alfred is thrown into the world of nations.

“Amerique! It is wonderful to see you here!” France smiles, latching onto Alfred’s wrist and quickly dragging him towards another set of rooms and halls, and another, far away from Benjamin Franklin doing nothing to stop it.

Walking away from the only Americans in Versailles feels like dunking his head under water, suffocating in a way that the other times leaving the continent had not.

“Welcome, to the Nation’s hall! Magnifique, is it not?” France doesn’t let up the grip on his hand as they walk through the doors. The idea of Art-England being here almost makes him feel ill, simply adding to a burning headache.

Money seems to drip from the walls here, as if nothing lesser existed. The food here is present on surprisingly basic, breakable looking tables. A handful of guards are watching from the doorways with disinterest. He feels so out of place, the idea of a monarch having this much everything.

“Yeah …” Alfred finds his words fading as his mind wanders, bringing up memories of someone he hasn’t seen in years. He manages to focus enough to continue a conversation. “How are you France?” Alfred asks blandly.

“It is worth every penny to get revenge on Angleterre.” France must notice the sour look on his face, rolling his eyes as he talks “He is here as well, sulking as always after a loss.”

“Well I won. Nobody can take that away from me.” Alfred boasts, but it's ever too obvious how he searches the room. France decides this is the moment to push a disturbingly large wine glass into Alfred’s hands, likely twice as large and three times as thick as expected. He hasn’t had wine so obviously expensive before, money during the war was tight, and Arthur never let him drink (Although that hadn’t stopped him sneaking rum).

“You would be surprised Amerique, but there is no reason to get your hopes down. Perhaps you will end up happier than the rest.” In his voice there is a tone so resonant, neither of them want to acknowledge it. A sort of tension fills the air.

“Umm- yeah I’ll be happy.” Alfred answers, likely a bit late, drinking from his glass as an excuse not to say any more.

“Democracy and all of that, should I give it a shot as well Alfred?” France asks in a happy but serious tone, though he smiles as if he was neither. Only at this does Alfred notice his disturbing thinness, notices that France seems just out of place in his own palace as Alfred does.

“You really should man, Democracy is the best.” Alfred assured, reminding himself far too much of death before his revolution.

His mind drifts to the last words he heard Death say, how he hasn’t seen Death since. Gaps in appearances are nothing new, but this one twists at his gut something fierce. Maybe Death is dead, maybe it’s Alfred’s fault, it must be his fault that Death hasn’t reappeared yet. Maybe it was his fault to expect Death there last birthday, when Prussia had brought a candle tradition with him and sang a strange song.

“Spain!” France shouts, knocking Alfred out of his mind and making him realize he didn’t notice the entrance of a handful of nations, though France has still not responded to Alfred, “Come over here and meet the newest nation among us!”

“Estados Unidos! Inglaterra has truly been knocked down a peg, all your doing I’m sure.” rings out the loud voice of an already drunk Spain, “He hasn’t acted like this since before mi armada was wiped out, Dios is on the side of the faithful.” Spain elbows France good naturedly, before swiping the still quite full wine glass from Alfred and drinking some. Alfred realizes he has seen England as well, being hit with a sort of pain.

“Is Prussia here too?” Alfred asks, looking and feeling out of place among the greatest players on the world stage. Spain hands him back a nearly empty glass, but Alfred doesn’t protest. He may be considered careless and headstrong, but he has enough sense to know the importance of placating the only nation who could invade without thinking twice. Though Alfred cannot stop thinking about England, he can’t stop thinking about Death either.

“Non, what a shame as well.” France answers quickly, his attention drifting back to Spain “Who do you believe will have superiority over the seas now?” he asks, in a way that makes Alfred feel like a child in a room of adults.

“Inglaterra. But if we work together we may still accomplish great things.” Spain punctuates these words by taking out a musket, waving it around like a sword and grinning. It takes effort not to flinch at the cavalier attitude, his headache makes itself known, and he tells himself the dark corner of the room is a spot in his vision.

“Ill accomplish great things one day too, ill return the favor one day. I promise!” Alfred forces himself to say cheerfully, carefully not looking at the corner of the room. Alfred tries to think about the future practically painted on his eyelids, leading the world in peace and democracy, freedom for all.

“Florida is enough Estados Unidos, but more is nice.” Spain comments with boredom oozing from his voice, so Alfred looks away, right at Death. Death looks the same as always, and for once Alfred cannot even guess at his emotions.

“It is nice to see you using my ideas, I had hoped they would spread but I didn’t expect this.” France’s talks, Alfred makes eye contact, and the second he looks back Death is gone, “It is obvious you would rebel under his tyranny, so much pain would have been saved if he had let me raise you.”

Alfred doesn’t point out the obvious, and neither does Spain.

-

Alfred doesn’t sleep that night, pretending to rise when he feels the soft green light on his eyes, “Am I?” he asks “Am I going to kill you?” without looking up. The light intensifies before fading, almost if Death had blinked.

**I believe so.**

At this Alfred looks up, the green shimmers sickeningly off the golden decorations of Versailles. Death stands in the middle of the room almost emoting. The blinding excitement is shunned by fear.

**Do you like being an independent country?**

“There’s nothing better than freedom ya know dude!” Alfred says with a mixture of real and false enthusiasm, real up until the point he has experienced this, false as he is not right now, “But c’mon don’t change the subject.” he pouts, watching as Death does absolutely nothing.

**There is no reason to worry about me.**

“That’s bull, I care if you die.” He bites out, almost angry, soft from the years having to hide their conversations from the household staff. He’s never had to worry about Death before, now the feeling is especially painful.

**Thank you, I care for you as well Alfred.** Death pauses, breathes, Alfred has to do a double take because Death breathes again,  **I did not mean to disappear for so long, It is difficult to tell time without a living reference.**

“Da- .Death, why are you going to die. How would you even die, you’re Death! Would another Death suddenly appear and make you dead?” He never asked Death these things before, he never cared.

**There is a life cycle of gods, we are born to gods and fade away as humans. I have not felt more human than when I am around you.**

“Oh.” Death doesn’t let the words hang, almost immediately changing the subject.

**You should explore the city while you still can, you idolize France’s architecture and ideas, yes?**

“France might get mad at me. I don’t want to make a bad impression you know?” He responds quickly and thoughtless, happy to change the subject, not wanting to think about anything at all.

“WAIT! What do you mean by when I still can? If you leave again in the middle of a question I swear dude.” With this slightly desperate questioning he stands up, running to grab onto Death as if that would stop him from leaving. Death’s hand is warmer than he remembered.

**I do not know much Alfred, but this city may be the center of great change brought about by many deaths.**

“All the more reason to explore then!” He decides, not letting go of Death’s hand for the life of him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I didnt upload for awhile, quarantine kinda fucks with mental health.


	7. An exercise in mortality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred gets yellow fever, and learns something he can't forget.

**You look awful**

“Like I’m at Death’s door.” He laughs at his own stupid joke, but the laughter quickly tuns to deep racking coughs, “It hurts.” Alfred groans in between the nasty coughs. He resists the urge to push all of the books Death left him off of the table, they tower dozens high and it would be so satisfying to watch them fall.

**You will be alright**

“Easy for you to say.” Alfred wheezes out with a burning throat, each breath seeming to just keep him alive but never enough. The medical books never said that his heart would pierce his innards when it beat, but the books never knew right about his kind. But the book is more accurate than most, he can spot it tenth on the stack.

**Why have you not told your Boss about this**

“I-h I don’t want him to worry. The union is so young.” Washington would be sure to fret, he used to use Alfred’s pains to predict places captured before the horses could reach them. At least the other founding fathers knew the countries well.

**He would be right to not worry, I will not let you die**

“It hurts.” He wines, feeling so incredibly miserable he could almost go to London if that would stop it. Not like he hadn’t already visited to scream at all of the national monuments, revenge was due after all.

**Drink.** Death’s cold hand comes to rest on his head while the other tips a strange drink which he sips slowly,  **You have a fever. Have you been vomiting blood?** The cold hand both burns his feverish skin and makes him desperately want more cold touch.

“N-Not yet.” Alfred mumbles, feeling the cooling effect of the strange drink immediately, “Wi-il you stay?” He asks, fighting the will of heavy eyelids to look at Death, Alfred would say he looked concerned if he believed Death’s face ever showed emotions. Alfred would like to think that Death actually was concerned though, even if his face couldn't show it.

**You would not be able to convince me to leave.**

“T-thank you.”

**You are welcome**

“How do nations die?” He asks after a particularly bad round of coughing makes him wish he was. Death pushes the strange drink into his hands until he drinks it again, while an uncomfortably cold and sopping wet cloth is placed on his forehead.

**You must not worry about that Alfred, you will be alright**

“Please?” He begs, because his friends are humans and his people are humans and they all die and it hurts so badly, because he never wants to see his annoying distant friends die, because he wants to meet the tiny new colony Canada wrote to him about.

**Rome did struggle. He was half dead for a very long time, tearing to exit my clutches. Countries typically act as such, when they die it is a limbo, until the very last human does not consider themselves to be of that country, but they may return at any time. Rome gave up though, after his little brother the Byzantine empire failed to reconquer the territory. Perhaps when the holy roman empire popped up in his place that sealed his coffin. Rome slips through the cracks to the mortal world when it suits him, because of how much he occupies mortal thought.**

“Holy Rome is an ass, he’s been around soooo long.” The man was old as England but looked like a child, and part of seemingly every history Alfred was forced to read. Personally he hadn’t seen the kid, but he had countless portraits from countless ages. Prussia would complain about him too, but Prussia cared about Holy Rome. 

**Perhaps, but he is waning**

“W-what about the others, are t-they dying?” He had to know, he hadn’t even considered it but everyone knew, everyone had heard of Robespierre and Saint-Just beheading anyone they deemed a threat. Did he need to warn France? He didn’t want to see Francis die even though they barely hang out. He didn’t want Holy Rome to die either, maybe he could stop it? America didn’t want to think about what it would be like for Prussia to lose his brother.

**No, no others are. France may be going through things, but both Francis and France will live.** Death said as if he had read Alfred’s mind, maybe Death could, or maybe he was just an open book. He didn’t try to think about it though, it was hard to think.

“That’s nice.” Alfred mumbles, looking again to the books an inward as well, trying not to sleep because he feared Death would be gone when he woke up. He knew Death would stay, or at least he hoped.

“Death?” He has to pause for the coughing to stop, “How do you know Holy Rome is going to die?” he feels awful, but the idea of another death just makes him feel worse. He was supposed to help the world, supposed to lead everyone to a time when nobody would die and they’d all be happy, and he felt as if he had failed Holy Rome. No matter that the other country could destroy him if he pleased, no matter that they hadn’t met, the idea sent his gut twisting.

**His energy draws my presence equally strong as the pull of a human speaking their last words. I do not know how long he has, but the fates pull.**

“What if he doesn’t die? Can you keep him alive?” Alfred asks, increasingly desperate, maybe he couldn’t think right, maybe he can’t do anything. But he just can’t, he knows and he needs to do something, he needs to be the hero he can.

**No, I already anger the fates. She is lenient, but I take much.**

“Is there a chance?”

**Until the moment, nothing is guaranteed.**

-

  
  
  


“Hey Prussia!” Alfred shouts, albeit a bit too loud, to the shock of white hair he sees when leaving the carriage. This treatment was only reserved for countries, for the nations that people referred to as such, but he tried to focus on his goal instead of ego. Prussia grins a wide toothed smile, beckoning him over with the sharp end of a sword. Death stands at his side, seemingly ignorant of any deeper purpose to this meeting.

“America! How’re you doing, you just chucked off zee british bastard! I zink I deserve a zank you.” Prussia slaps him on the back hard enough for him to feel vestiges of his recent illness, a thick cough threatening to make itself known.

“Thanks bro. I have to tell you some-” Alfred starts, but Prussia starts to drag him bodily away from the crowd of people. He glances back to death, perhaps in a sort of guilt, and notices the calm almost amused look on the unchanging face.

“Ahh tell me later,” He interrupts with a voice loud enough to break glass, “ve’re going hunting now, It isn’t every day zere’s nations around to hang out vith.” The tone of his voice makes it sound sinister, but Alfred chooses to ignore that. His bag is full of notes and papers covered in speeches to explain, to plead his case to Prussia for the life of Holy Rome.

“I neeeeeed to tel-” Prussia interrupts him by slamming the door behind them, the room around them is full of guns and other hunting paraphernalia. Some covered in blood, although others are sparkling clean. Death phases through the wall to observe these same weapons.

“Can’t hear you! I can only hear zee call to WAR!” Prussia shouts, reaching for a particularly large musket, a terrifyingly sharp bayonet on the end.

“It’s serious.” Alfred insists, but the voice comes out small and timid, he almost doubts Prussia heard it. Death perks up at this, and Alfred simply hopes he will not prevent him from telling Prussia.

“And I seriously need to teach you proper hunting. Shame pirate boy on rainy island didn’t let you talk to us, vee voulda had so much fun!” The mention of England is a somewhat sharp reminder to avoid nostalgia, he almost forgot the isolation.

“Uh yeah.” Alfred says sharply, grabbing for a brown bess musket from the wall to satisfy Prussia’s pushiness.

“You should come along next time Holy Rome gets here, he hunts like theres no tomorrow. I swear if it vasn’t so pricy he’d be hunting elephants.”

“I really need to tell you something.” Alfred mentions again as they leave the room, Prussia waves him off in a way that makes his words unexpected.

“Yeah yeah out vith it, gosh you’re more annoying than your annoying soldiers before they got trained by the most awesome military ever!” He doesn’t trick himself into thinking that this was ever going to repay Prussia’s assistance in the war, but this must be done, it has to be. He’s the only one who can.

“Holy rome isgoingtodie.” The words slur and come out too fast, but Prussia understands what Alfred is trying to say. The man’s face looks conflicted and for just the barest of moments Alfred swears that he will be taken seriously. Death looks over another time, perhaps realizing why he was brought here in the first place. The whole world almost seems to still, the moment before an event, the moment of reckoning. Though nothing happens.

Prussia barks out a somewhat forced laugh, “You have a terrible sense of humor, be thankful that the best comedian in the vorld is here to teach you!” he says, before walking with long quick strides making Alfred jog to keep up.

Alfred catches up, but Prussia simply walks even faster, “No I’m serious, Holy Rome is going to die! He’s going to fall apart or something!” Alfred shouts, and the Prussia’s sudden stop makes Alfred fall over his feet.

“If you wanted to pick someone believable you could have chosen Romano.” The Germanic nation jests in a biting way.

“You have to believe me dude, please, I can’t just let him die. I’m the hero after all!” Alfred pleads, but a moment of realization causes him to stop and shout out, “AHA! You need to meet Death!” but the words come too soon and Prussia reacts wrong.

“YOU CAN NEVER DEFEAT THE AWESOME ME! I VILL SEND YOU TO DEATH’S DOOR FIRST, YOU HAVE NO CHANCE!”

“AAAAAAHHH-?” Alfred starts to skriek, but Death seems to act. Prussia is picked up by the scruff of his uniform as if he was a kitten, before Death drops him on the floor in an undignified heap.

“I-h” Prussia stutters, as the sky starts to almost darken, as the world seems to spin under their feet. But Death disappears suddenly, leaving the air to clear up to the bright sunny day it was earlier, “Vhat did you do?”

“That was Death.” Alfred feels his cheeks heat up, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’ve known him for a long time. I’m the only person who can see him.”

“Oh.” Prussia says in a voice that sounds so small, so defeated, so scared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya! sorry that I didn't update for a hot sec, but the next chapter is already kinda planned out so it should be out kinda soon.


	8. The Battle of Appomattox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the dawn of April 9 1865 The Confederacy launched its final attack, but the war had essentially been won already.
> 
> Death talks to the confederacy and the union on this titular day.

A letter arrives to the door, the man inside the small office retrieving it the best he can without collapsing. The one who delivered the letter almost looks pitying, but the man will accept no pity.

_ April 8, 1865 _

_ Appomattox Courthouse _

_ Dear Confederate States Of America, _

_ I am displeased to inform you of the war, although you have foretold of this future for the past year. The union armies pursue us even as we have left Richmond to them, I had believed that we would have a chance. I have been proven wrong, the only one we may plea to now is god, for even if we win the battle we will not be able to go on.  _

_ I ask for your forgiveness my dear nation, I have failed you, we have all failed you. There are weeks left at most before the Union army will completely dominate us, though with your urging I will not surrender. _

_ This morning we plan on going to the railway at Lynchburg to gather supplies, as our men do not have enough to continue. I wish for your sake it brings us a victory in spirit. _

_ Eternally in your will, your service. _

_ Robert E. Lee _

A will of god indeed, the will of the same god that delivered him to this fate originally. He pours himself a glass of whiskey to dull the pain, just waiting for a being he knows will arrive.

Eventually Death does appear in the fairly small office, a hiding place from the persisting struggle of the war. The man who sits in the chair has brilliant blonde hair, but withered and broken. A handsome man wracked with the plague of stress, covered in bandages that he shouldn’t have. Deep scarring burn marks reaching up his neck and barely to the face. He wears a grey uniform stained with the slightest amount of blood, the traditional rifle of the confederate soldier abandoned for a less conspicuous pistol. The only light outside is the stars, inside a small candle burns low.

“Which one of us do you support Death?” He asks, warily eying Death through tired eyes. A scene reckoning back to childhood, when Alfred would stay up late waiting for Death to return, would talk to him in the sickly light of his eyes only the pair of them could see.

**I would rather not answer**

“Coward. You told me you wouldn’t let me die, see where that promise has gone.” The man growls, staring down the ageless being. Neither of them intend to acknowledge when the man clenches his fist and hisses in pain. Death waits until the tense moment ends in order to talk.

**I do not control the fates**

“Certainly messed with ‘em didn’t ya.” The man snaps, giving in to impulsiveness when he balls up the letter on the desk and throws it at Death.

**I had a promise to keep.**

“A PROMISE! A fucking promise! What about what you promised me!” In his anger, the man throws a glass over at Death, Death lets the glass phase through him to shatter on the back wall, “You’re just playing favorites, you don’t have to kill either of us. I could have lived happy go lucky here not bothering the yank, IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?”

The confederate nation stands up, he grabs the being by the front of his robes, but does not lift him up. 

**I am sorry.**

The hold on Death’s robes go tender, before the man roughly pushes Death into the wall of broken glass. When the man stumbles, his legs give out and send him crashing down, Death catches him with a gentle touch.

“Not even a justification before I die?” He growls, pushing Death away as soon as his feet are under him, “Nothing to say! I never knew what a spineless, idiotic freak you were  _ Dad _ .” He spits out the last word aiming to hurt, aiming to lash out. He can’t tell what Death thinks, just a blank face of grim composure.

**You are already falling apart**

“That’s not an excuse and you know it, It was just the same after the revolutionary war. It was just the same, now why won't you help me!” He wails, almost like a child, a loud vocal noise of terrible pain. His shoulder starts to bleed through the bandages.

**I am sorry. I am sorry that you have been set on the path to a doomed fate, one of suffering and pain. I am sorry that I could not save you.**

“Why don’t you just try harder!” The man screams, before his outward blame turns against his own heart, “What did I do wrong?” He mutters, quiet, angry, and almost regretful. Death does not try to comfort him, Death remains a few feet away standing perfectly still.

**You are doomed to a fate of all nations who dare subjugate themselves. You are the slave master, you are the slave.**

Anger seems to rise on his face like a fire lit, “Why didn’t you tell me earlier! I deserved to know. You just let me secede just to suffer and die!” he hollers to the man who does not move.

**I am sorry.**

“Sorry this, sorry that, to damnation! You don’t regret a thi-” The man pauses, then screams a heart wrenching cry of pain, tears welling up in his eyes, and falling to the ground. Blood spreads from his stomach, staining the grey uniform even more, but the scream continues. A scream that demonstrates his marked fate, the pain not simply of bullets but of soul. The scream ceases into a hurried wheezing, the man now more sickly looking than ever before. As if the color itself had been drained from him, the burning ocean blue eyes now faint, the hair almost grey.

“I-I’m fine.” He growls when Death kneels down to comfort him, face still wreaked in continuing pain. Death’s look of almost-confusion is the last straw, as the man starts to scream, “What do you think! Leave me to die in peace!” he yells, snarling at Death.

**You will live on, in a way. In the hearts and soul of America. He will remember you, if not by your own memories then in his mind.**

“Rejoining that yank is basically death. How long do I have?”

The question hangs in the air as Death does not answer, as the man glares at him in an almost challenging way. Death is the first to break.

**You will die by the crack of dawn.**

The confederacy looks out the window, although he can feel the time in his soul. He has at most an hour before the sun rises, he will never again see the light of day. He will never again truly live again. His final moments are one nobody would ever wish to have, the peril of the creeping time, the horrific pain, the regret.

He takes out the pistol from his uniform, “I’ll go out on my own terms.” he mutters, looking to Death almost as if expecting the man to stop him. Though he finds no such attempt, the gun barrel cold on the skin of his forehead.

**I love you.**

“I don’t think you can.” The confederacy bites out, using the last bravery he has left to squeeze the trigger.

Death does not move until the dawn rises again.

The corpse seems to watch him.

The corpse makes him pause.

The corpse almost looks peaceful.

He wishes he could have guided the man to the underworld.

He has not died, not in spirit. Death knows this, he has simply re-merged to the previous whole. It does not feel that way.

He drapes a cloak over the body.

He brings candy.

He leaves.

-

He is woken up at dawn to the sounds of the rebel yell, a chilling sound that brings him to a moment of adrenaline. The soldiers around him arm themselves, from the ridge at which he stood could see the other group of cavalry do the same. He can feel every death as it happens in a way he never could before, the confederates as well.

Something told him he had won, even when the rebels break through the line of cavalry and approach their position on the ridge. They face an uphill battle, and some determination has the confederates pushing through. Alfred fights surrounded by Americans, he fights confederates who are now his people. But it is alright, each fallen man is a man Alfred will never forget.

Whenever he fights it is with the desperation of the young child hanged, always lashing out on the battlefield with an inhuman strength, an inhuman skill, and a countless dead. England would disapprove, Alfred knows what the man thought about fighting with your soldiers, but he can’t imagine the difference between killing them and leading others to do so.

Michael Evans falls first, a fifteen year old from Virginia, he thought he could prove himself an adult. Logan Willis falls next, twenty five from South Carolina, he was drafted, he will never see his daughter. Matthew Shaw, thirty five from Texas, thought in his last moments that he would go to Hell. Harley Harrison, sixteen from Louisiana, was abandoned by his family. Daniel Austin, who would never see his twenty third birthday had moved to Georgia years ago, fleeing from a man he loved. Joshua Marshall, twenty from Mississippi, never achieved his dream to study law. Nicholas Price, thirty eight from Florida, only fought in a fleeting hope the death of his soldier son was not in vain.

The confederates manage to break through, advancing to the top of the ridge before abruptly realizing how much they are surrounded. Surrounded and outnumbered, doomed, at the will of the enemy.

His corps does not advance to the surrounded confederates, the General preferring to let the other take the first move. But this move never does come.

He heard the arrival of the white flag before he saw it, the general raucous of the soldiers around him alerting the event. What looked like a towel of some sort was being waved, and talk of a truce. Alfred barely managed to push himself through to the front lines and insert himself in the moment. The young nation followed General Custer to the first negotiations of the day, both of them escorted to the confederate Lieutenant General Longstreet.

Longstreet meets them with a sense of solemn acceptance, standing proud. Custer starts to talk as soon as he sees Longstreet, “In the name of General Sheridan I demand the unconditional surrender of this army.” Alfred watches from the fringes of the escort around them.

“I am not in the command of this army, but If I was I would not deal with messages from Sheridan.” Longstreet bites back in a bitter manner, obviously angered over the blatant future of his army. Custer takes this as a challenge.

“It would be a pity to have more blood upon the field.” He threatens with the union army behind him, the ball is in his court.

“Will you not respect the truce?” Longstreet chides, “General Lee has gone to meet General Grant, and it is for them to determine the future of the armies.” he admits, casting a loaded glance to Custer, and then the same to Alfred.

-

Alfred watches as the treaty is signed, the only way this moment could have been better was if the confederate bastard was here as well, he had gloating long due. There was no confederacy standing there next to Lee as Alfred had been standing next to Grant when the negotiations had taken place.

The soldiers are partying outside, more accurately the union soldiers and the former slaves accompanying them are partying while the confederate ones have fallen into a somewhat solemn silence. He wishes to join them, but the sting of wounds both young and old drives him to a room. Alfred has long since learned to avoid the treatment of doctors, resorting to the assistance of Death when things become too dire. 

He takes the stairs to the top floor for privacy, claiming the first room he sees. The mirror there reminds him of how terrible he looks, sickly visage with blood to boot. Unfortunately all wounds caused by the injury to his land, not the physical body, and those would heal slowly. 

“Death!” Alfred shouts as soon as he sees Death enter the room, throwing his arms around the eternally cold being, “We did it!” he shouts muffled into the robe, melding into the hug with a happy heart. He lifts Death above the ground with the hug, for just a second before letting go.

**You have done it.**

“I could have never done it without you.” Alfred admits with a bright smile, teeth abnormally white compared to his people.

“Thank you.” He says when Death does not respond, looking up at him with incredible gratitude. 

**You should celebrate with your people.**

“They’ll be fine.” Alfred knows they don’t miss him, each thinking of themselves and their families, as they should. The bravery seems to falter, to break, as Alfred falls out of his good mood. 

“I felt like I was going to die. For so long, it was terrifying…” He admits his fears, sitting down on the floor of the room, “It was worse than the revolution, wh-” his speech catches as tears threaten to fall, “when the bastard got up to Gettysburg I thought I could never stop him.”

“I-h I can’t stop thinking about how if I never met you i would be dead. There would be nothing, that’s terrifying.” He sits on the floor, teary eyed, and Death joins him sitting there. A comforting presence through his fears.

**It is alright. Many people are afraid of Death.**

“I’m not afraid of you.” Alfred realizes just the opposite, the presence of Death seems to vanish his fears, “Who would have thought, Death saving lives.” Alfred gets a small chuckle out of that, returning to his good mood almost as suddenly as it had ended.

“The hero doesn’t cry.” He says as wiping at his eyes with a bloody sleeve, “I should go out and see them though, stay please?” He asks Death as he stands up and smiles.

**Alright**

Death reasons that he is not a hero, If Death had tear ducts, he believes he would have shed a tear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy heck I wrote this like all today. The battle isn't perfect but it's vaguely historically accurate. I hope y'all like this, as it was somewhat caused by needing to study for a US History test. Inspiration comes from strange sources I guess. Enjoy your day :)


	9. WW1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Its WW1

“Hey Death.” Alfred lounges on the grass outside his house, enjoying the July heat in the shade with a cold drink. “Have you heard about the war?” he asks, looking at the looming figure of death standing nearby.

Death turns from the birds he was watching to direct a look at Alfred.

**Please do not join the fighting.**

“C’mon Dad” he draws the word out almost as if it was a jest, “I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me.” He sits up though at the almost emotion in Death’s words, Death continues to look at Alfred.

**I will worry.** Death’s face is pulled into a very slight frown, something so unexpected that it pulls Alfred’s attention. He never saw Death make a single expression,  **Please be safe.**

“It can’t be that bad.” He argues, not because he does not trust death, but because he does not want to be treated like a kid. Something gnaws at him with Death’s reaction, a sort of foreboding in his gut.

**By the end of the decade between three and ten percent of the world population will die undue deaths.**

“By god. I need to stop it!” He shouts without thinking, standing up in a frantic attempt to do something, even though the stirrings of war were in Europe and he's currently under a tree in Virginia.

**It is written into the fates. Please.**

“You said that about the Holy Roman Empire.” He bites out, and he would swear Death looks truly hurt. Death opens his mouth to say something, but interrupted before he could speak by disappearing. Alfred knew well enough that a battle must have started, so he waited.

And Death didn’t return.

  
  
  


“This ain’t so bad Britain, Civil war was worse.” Alfred whines, walking around the fairly dreadful trenches with pep in his step. The Americans haven’t arrived yet, but he knows they’ll shine here like stars. He hopes that he’ll see Death here, maybe even get to say hello.

“Civil wars will always be worse lad.” Britain tuts, looking incredibly tired, “You just haven’t seen the worst of it.” he mutters, in a way that Alfred can barely hear.

“Thank you Amerique.” France interjects, a soft grateful tone that’s so different than what he usually sounds like. Both of them look near dead, although France looks significantly worse than Britain.

“I’m the hero after all.” He argues, because that’s the reason he’s here in the first place. If he could save the Holy Roman Empire then he can save a bunch of humans.

Britain and France have nothing to say about that, probably so thankful that he arrived that they are shocked into wordlessness. They enter a fairly abandoned part of the trenches.

He hears a slight whistling sound in the sky, “GET DOWN!” He hears Britain yell in his ear, the three of them flattening themselves to the muddy disgusting ground as the earth itself shakes. 

When the ground settles Britain grabs his hand, dragging him as they follow France into a sort of small shelter under the earth. They are the only ones in there, if the rats are not counted, and the place is awful. The explosions make his ears ring and body feel wrong, wanting nothing more than to cover his ears and curl into a ball in a nice bed.

The bombs do not stop, but when France taps him on the shoulder he uncovers his ears, “They’re going to assault after the shells end America, be ready.” he says, loud enough that America can just hear them over the ear bursting bombs, or shells as they are apparently called. 

They stay in the shelter, his hands twiddling at his sides because about an hour ago they all shoved cotton in their ears instead. France and Britain have taken to playing cards, but Alfred cannot focus away from the shells enough to join in. Unfortunately the shells did not scare off the enormous and terrifying rats, occasionally Alfred throws rocks at the bastards.

He barely recognizes when the shells stop, his ears still ring terribly but the ground does not shake. France and Britain have stopped playing cards, carefully standing up as if the world was going to fall out from under them.

The silence is killing him as they slowly leave the trenches, he can’t resist, standing on one of the barrels in order to see over the trench wall. Nobody is running towards them, although he doubts he would be able to see them from this angle over the rolls of barbed wire.

“HEY!” He yelps as Britain yanks him down from the barrel, causing him to fall into a heap on the floor.

“I don’t know how you haven’t gotten shot yet America! You are acting unbelievably stupid!” Britain is yelling his lungs out, and if he wasn’t Alfred almost doubts he could hear the man above the ringing in his ears. 

“I did that all the time at the end of my civil war and never got shot then.” He argues back, and then has a sudden mind numbing realization, “Yeah, wait. Have I ever gotten shot? Huh don’t think I have.” he decides, without the slightest clue why that could be.

“You’ve fought in multiple wars and lived for hundreds of years and you haven’t gotten shot once!” Britain shouts in the tone that means he’s either angry at something, or believes that Alfred is lying.

“That is mighty strange Amerique. I have personally lost count.” France says, listlessly counting on his fingers until he gives up on that endeavor. It must be plenty, considering that Alfred can see a healing bullet wound in his hand.

“I got hanged once, but that doesn’t really count.” He says, trying to pull up the times he remembers truly dying, but coming largely up short. He has vague memories of a gun, a cold Virginia night, and an argument with Death.

“Hanged, when?” Britain asks, mood shifting so fast Alfred almost got whiplash. He doesn’t notice that the tone is almost regretful, almost paternalistic in a way.

“Some random witch hunty town.” Alfred notes in a fairly bland manner, although he can still feel the endless deaths and a pitchfork in his stomach. He can see through a child’s eyes to watch himself bleed out while his people watched.

“There must be strange magic messing with something.” Britain decides, and France sighs with the exasperation of a thousand years. Even Alfred is skeptical that his magic does anything, and he can see Death himself.

“Nah dude, I’m pretty sure I’m just lucky.”

“Do you want me to shoot you America?” France jokes, with a tinge of bitterness.

“I’m good dude.” Alfred smiles awkwardly, although he tries to pass it off as suave, he’s been a country for two hundred years and should be smooth by now.

“You and your American grammar.” Britain tuts, and Alfred is left with the unbearable feeling that Death is missing. He almost looks over his shoulder, but he knows Death wouldn't be there.

“Best in the world!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TYSM for catching that i accidentally added this to the wrong work, hope you have a nice day :)


	10. The ties of fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pearl harbor happens, and WWII begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this chapter took awhile, this is the first chapter of the story covering WWII, so I hope you like it!!

Alfred can tell that this day is important. His soul feels an ever persisting but slight pull to this location, and he has been visiting various ships in the harbor for about a week. Alfred is sitting on the deck of the USS Ward, the USS Ward is a ship led by Lieutenant Will Outbridge. Alfred had taken a liking to the man, so he assumed that was why Will was just given his first command. He feels right, like the ship was meant for him all along. 

His babysitters linger nearby, directing the navy around them to search for the abnormal. His darling government is smart, they trust in him, they do not throw away an opportunity. They found what they were looking for before dawn this day, a periscope spotted in the very waters they currently patrol. 

The minders are talking about some message they decoded from Japan, some so called “14-part message”, and think Japan is about to break off their negotiations of continued peace, although the Japanese haven’t delivered it themselves. They think he’s trying to get to the Philippines, and have expressly banned him from traveling there. They all think Japan is going to attack soon, and most think it will be the American Philippines, but he knows something will happen here. Something important will occur in Pearl Harbor, December of 1941.

The sun is low in the sky, a beautiful day that seemingly only Alfred could feel the foreboding nature of, he checks his watch constantly, as if whatever event to happen is a delivery.

6:30 am.

The waters are clear, and very cold. There are ships in the water near them, searching for something one of them spotted hours before. Alfred can’t remember, he doesn’t think much at times like these. Something is going to happen, and he knows that.

The deck is somewhat windy, and the sailors around him either don’t notice he’s there or ignore him. He vaguely watches as one of his handlers is sent away, maybe to send an update. 

He closes his eyes.

He opens them, looks at his watch again.

6:37 am.

He hears a shout a few seconds later, “There's a periscope! Look, over there! Following the Antares!” Alfred runs over to the spot, runs and stares at the endless sea. His eyes are drawn to the small speck trailing one of his ships. 

“Tell the captain!” One of the men shouts. He can feel the people move around, an odd sort of panic. His handlers most of all, they know now that they are stuck to experience this even with the rest of them.

“Yes sir!” The event clouding his mind starts to fade, it is going to happen, and soon. 

Someone else shouts, and he knows this person is Will Outbridge, “FIRE AT THE SUBMARINE!” People scramble to follow this order, he helps one of them set up the shot.

BOOM!

BOOM!

BOOM!

Each shot rattles his bones like a wind chime. He’s the only one without earplugs -his pair rest securely in his pocket- and he can feel the sharp pains that pierce his brain. He rushes to the side of the boat without regard for his safety, looking in the cloud of smoke for the enemy submarine.

He can see the damage done, the top of the submarine is damaged, but it is still intact enough to get away. He feels the spirit of war rise around him, and cheers, even though the submarine starts to flee.

“FIRE!” He hears the Lieutenant shout, moments later the submarine explodes twice more. The smoke covers the water again, he waits impatiently to see the damage.

As the cloud clears he sees the wreckage, he cheers, watching the Japanese Submarine surface in pieces. The smoke clears even more, he would be able to read the characters if he could read Japanese. 

7:48am

There are planes in the air, far away, too far for him to see. But he knows they’re there. The captain knows they’re there as well, because he orders them into defensive positions. 

“Sir!” One of his handlers shouts, trying to convince him to retreat into the captain’s quarters. They tug on his arms, but are unable to move him. He stands there, staring at the empty sky and waiting for the first blast.

The planes fly overhead for a brief moment, people around the deck stare up at the sky to catch them flying by. He feels the shot before he hears it, like he had just gotten shot in his Achilles heel. The left foot. 

“They’re attacking the battleships!” Alfred shouts, running to the railing to watch the smoke rise. He wishes he was up in the planes, fighting with his people.

His head spins with the spirit of it, with the pure desire to pound the enemy to death with his fists. To shoot them where they would die, but not where the death would be quick. He wants to watch the life leave their eyes, the energy leave their bodies, their last breath leave their lungs.

They deserve it, because he can feel the death of every man around him, a sharp pang for each one that ends up feeling like a heart attack. He can’t think.

The rest of the attack blurs together, at some point a ship near them is hit, shooting shrapnel and smoke around theirs. He glances to the ones attacked, and sees someone all to familiar.

Death is there, the eye of the storm, the middle of the battle raging on.

At some point all he knows is the terrible pain on his ankle, like it’s being burned from the inside. He can feel the bombs inside the flesh, so hot, so sharp, so painful. He falls with the USS Arizona, barely catching himself on the deck. Shrapnel buries in his hands when he lands, but all he can feel is the pain on his ankle. 

As the battle progresses Alfred can feel himself cough, violently as he struggles to breathe. Even when their deck is clear of the smoke, it comes billowing from his own lungs. 

At some point all he can feel is pain.

  
  


**It is safe now Alfred. The Japanese will not attack this harbor again today.** Alfred opens his eyes -he never realized he closed them in the first place- to look at Death. The man is standing there, a face that may be of concern if he imagines a fair bit of it. Alfred looks around, the USS Ward is at port and he isn’t on it. The ship is one of the ones who remain intact, parked there looking majestic and amazing. So awesome. 

He blinks more, starting to comprehend what death said, “Couldn’t you have warned me like you did last time?” he groans, because even now he can see the smoke pour out of his lungs.

**There are more people dying around the world than ever before.** Death kneels by his side,  **This fate is preferable to many others. Are you alright?** A hand goes to his, turning it around to look at the metal embedded into it. Death starts to carefully remove the pieces stuck in his hand, not caring for how much he bleeds. Neither care, if it was Alfred doing this he would be far less gentle with himself.

“I feel awful.” He complains.

Death quickly finishes taking the metal from his hand, and glances down to the bloody mess that is his ankle,  **Your wound will heal with time.** Alfred blinks and a cup is there.  **Here, drink this**

Alfred takes the cup and starts to drink, it tastes like some sort of tea. Surgery, like he likes. He holds the cup in his bloody palms, feeling awful, “Can you tell me a story?” he asks Death, his face looks almost confused, “It’ll at least be funny.” Alfred jokes, Death is a terrible storyteller. The being doesn’t question, transitioning to sitting down before him.

**Once upon a time there was a peasant, they were young and naive. They cried to the heavens because they could never feel happiness, they never fell in love. The peasant was cursed into a fox until they could find love. Every Sunday at the crack of dawn the former farmer would return to human form, and for fifty years the farmer would spend their Sundays courting the townsfolk.**

**But once, long ago on Sunday morning, the fox woke to the sounds of a crying baby. The baby had no parents, and the fox made do. The fox had found a child to adore, and the curse was broken.**

He actually sits there silent for a bit, “That’s a lot better than most of your stories. Did you practice this or somethin?” Alfred asks, standards on the floor for the other’s creativity, “You should draw it out longer, it’s too short.” he adds, because it’s barely a story if it’s over as soon as it begins. He would know, all the nations love to watch his movies, he’s the best in the world.

**Do you wish to tell a story of your own Alfred?**

He shrugs, thinking for a moment before starting to improvise, “Once upon a time in England or wherever lame that has a monarchy.” Alfred snorts at his own humor, “There was a King married to a Queen that he didn’t love, living rich and proud. Stupidly wealthy, like versailles, ya know. He wanted a son so bad that he couldn’t accept when the Queen gave birth to a daughter. He was sure he had a son. So the next day the Queen went into town with her daughter, and looked for a newborn boy. She found a family of merchants, and paid them a fortune to switch her baby princess with their baby son.” He breathes in, pauses, and drinks some of the tea. 

“The king saw his fake son, and accepted it. He had deluded himself so much that he thought the kid was a boy all along. So they raised him, who grew to look like them, and walk like them, and talk like them. Only the Queen knew he wasn’t theirs. But she didn’t know everything. Hear this, each night on the full moon, the boy’s real parents would sneak to his window. His real dad would tell him stories, and tuck him in at night. The king would only yell at him, give him gifts he didn’t care for, and force him to do princely things.” In the distance, Alfred swears he can see someone looking around, maybe he heard his name. Probably not though, there are many people named Jones, or Alfred.

“The kingdom didn’t like the king, the one who was greedy, power hungry, and wasteful. So they overthrew him, and put his teenage son on the throne. But the boy’s real father would still visit him on each full moon. He had everything that his father convinced him that he always wanted, and everyone wanted him to want it. But the boy wanted to be a normal person, to live with his father in the life that he had been destined for-” 

He is interrupted by the frantic shouting of his handlers, who he lost in the chaos,“MR. JONES!” one shouts, still looking around. He waves them over, but they don't see “MR. JONES!” they shout again. He had heard them, huh.

Alfred continues telling his story, “He wanted to live the life that the princess had, so one day they switched again. And then they were both so much happier.” he abruptly finishes the tale, then shouts, “I’m over here!” to his handlers. When they hear him they start to walk to him.

**That was a wonderful story.**

“Oh dear …” One of them, a tall ginger lady, says. She looks at his bloody hands, and at his exposed bloody, wounded ankle. “We need to get you medical attention.”

She must be new, “It will be alright, I can bandage it myself.” he says, because there's nothing he likes about being in a hospital and forced to sit still.

“We need to head to the capitol,” He agrees with her, this is war. 

-

When he gets out of the plane, Anna Roosevelt Halsted is there. She doesn’t have an official title to the public, but she serves as the leader of the National Personification Protection Unit. Alfred knows protection isn’t their only job, and the NPPU knows that he knows.

She stands still, tall, proud. Her hair is dark blonde, in a short and stylish style. She doesn’t stand out much for such an important person, although those who know what she does are few in number.

Anna Roosevelt scans him, her eyes land on his face. Her mouth pulls into a sort of concerned grimace, “Alfred are you alright?” she asks, beckoning his handlers to come closer to her. They hand her a significantly long report, which she puts in her briefcase.

“I’ve been better.” He admits, still buzzing with adrenaline from the previous day’s events, the national fervor and hate of millions. He checks his watch, still in Hawaii time. 

“Symptoms?” She asks, having pulled a clipboard out when he wasn’t paying attention. He sees Death in his peripheral vision, the black spector standing near his handlers, but tries not to look directly at him.

“My ankle is busted, and I have a headache.” He figures within a few days he will find more injuries, ones that may or may not be here already. She notes that down, she notes every cough, ache, and pain that he has. 

When Anna finishes writing, she speaks again, “Are there any other places you feel drawn to?” she asks. He looks over to congress, the direction that he feels his soul tug to at all times, a slight pull he barely ever notices.

“Uhh, congress.” He mentions, looking to his handlers. They are talking amongst themselves.

“Lovely, how about we go together.”

“Allright.”

-

After congress declares war, his handlers insist that he leaves the room. Alfred ends up in his white house bedroom, lounged like a rag doll on the desk. Death sits in the corner.

**They will worry for you.**

“Well how can you know that, you’ve never talked to them.” He abruptly realizes that sounds rude, “Yeah yeah, I know. It’s fine, really, Ill beat his ass.” And to think, he and Japan were nice to each other not that long ago. He wants to write a letter to Japan instead, wanting to tell the other man just how much better Alfred is than him, and how badly he’s going to loose the war.

**You should still write, even if only to tell them that.**

“Yeah yeah, I’ll get on it.” Alfred reaches for a pen on his desk, a beautiful one that looks more ornamental than useful. He hates his rooms in the white house because it’s all like that. He holds the pen limply in his hand, opting to stare out the window to the streets full of people below.

**I will help you as much as I can.**

“Yeah, yeah I know. Come on Death, I’ll be fine.” He looks away from the window, to the desk that's been around for a few hundred years. The one that they found the confederate bastard dead near, he doesn’t know why he never got rid of it, “I’ve been fine all the other times.” he adds.

**I will still help**

“Thanks dude.” Alfred puts pen to paper, scratching out an introduction in messy handwriting. When he’s doing something so utterly boring as writing a letter, the pain from his ankle is far more noticeable. He ends up fidgeting, writing out a response slowly.

Death stands in the corner, he gazes over to watch the other’s face. Death seems to have occupied himself by reading one of the books Arthur left here last time he visited. A boring one that he only kept because Death tries to stay around when he’s working. He gazes at the title,  _ The history of the Roman Empire Rise and Fall: Volume 3 _ . 

He turns back to his desk, writing around another paragraph. The writing is fairly dull for his standards, updating the others on the attack and his health. He tries to add a personal flair, but his head spins at the idea of writing more than he already has. He can still feel his hands minutely shaking from the Declaration of War mere hours ago. 

He looks at Death again, recently the being has been unable to spend long periods of time with him, a few hours each week at the most, but now Alfred can’t stand the idea of being alone. He knows that if he wished, he could call someone from the white house in here to keep him company, but he doesn’t want to do that in the slightest. 

He hopes Death doesn’t die before him, because the man has been his constant companion as long as he can remember. Death once said that if Alfred had ever wanted, he could teach him how to see ghosts. Maybe when the deity dies, he will be able to see the ghost walking the Earth looking for him. 

He looks back to the letter, covered in his messy handwriting, and admits to himself it isn’t going to get longer. With a hasty conclusion, he finishes the letter, pushing it back on his desk to send it later. 

“Hey Death? Alfred finds himself asking, watching as his dad puts down the book and looks over at him. 

**Yes Alfred?**

“I-h” He vaguely realizes he didn’t think through what he wanted to ask, that or he forgot, “Can I have a hug?” He defaults to, because he likes hugs and today his head is spinning so much he forgets his headache isn't always there.

Dad stands up, moving in the inhumanly fast way he sometimes does, practically teleporting to his side of the room. Alfred finds himself enveloped in the most familiar hug, so normal that hugs with regular people with warm skin feel strange. He vaguely remembers telling England that, long ago, but doesn’t remember the response.

He doesn’t want Death to leave, because then he may not come back for the entirety of the war. He hates that almost more than his own people dying, something that makes him feel so so selfish, but so undeniably human himself. He would relate to his troops more than to the other nations, talking about the loved ones they wanted to see when it was all over. And for awhile, he could pretend that they were no different. That even though in the mornings and nights he would go to the command tent, contributing to the strategies their generals would come up with and arguing. He could pretend that he really was Alfred, an eighteen year old boy who volunteered because he loved his country. He could pretend.

He’s wanted to be human as long as he knew Death, both being longer than he can even think to remember. And Death knows that, calls him Alfred like nobody else will but the civilians he's not supposed to talk to as much as he does.

He feels the hug end, relaxing his arms so that death can pull away. 

“Thanks.” He says.

**I have to leave now Alfred, the war is not ceasing.**

Alfred reaches out, he doesn’t think.

Just before Death disappears.

Alfred grabs his arm.

.

.

p̷̲̺̱̤̱͈̱̓̓͐͛̋̚͢ą̡̗͚͎̿̅̐̋͋͗̄ị̰̦͈̩͕̄͊̿̾̐͒̿͡͠ͅn̵̼̞̠̳̎̾̿̎͊̈́͢ s̵̭̜̙͚̠̖͖̈̈̍͑̈́͋͢ủ̳̗͔͚̖̱̬̬͒̉̄̓̇̎͢͝͡f̧̯̖͖̯̘͙̾̌̈́͑̐̕f͚̭̞͙͉̻̅̉̈̏̉͒̎̀ȩ̶̧̧̨̛̺͇̰͓̭̇̋̍̇͘͝͠r̢̨̺̼̺̖̖̹̩͈̃͂͋͐͗į̴͉̙̜̙̪̺̱̲̐̍̈̾̏̏̚͢͞n̘̖̖͙̯̪̺̣̣̋͋̍̆͝g̴̡̮̥͍͎̯̱͔̈͂̾̚͢͞

̡͔̫̪̥̩̻̰̣͉̊͂͑͛̿͂͠͝͝à̧̤̘̭̭̙͕͌̂͊͞ģ̢̰̪̤͚̮͔̙̥͂̔͒̐͘̚͞o̙̯̹̎̐̍̍̾͢͢n̨̞̞̜͇͒̃̉̉͐̂́y̡͚̝͙̝͇͕̦̅̉̆̾̂͊̿͘͢

̘͙͈̻͐̌̄͆̓ͅa̰͇̹̘̙͙̻̣͉̫͛̓̒̈́́̉͝f̷͕͈̜̝͛͒̈̍̚͞͞ͅf̶̱̰͈̻̤̲̐̈͂̆̓̇̽̚l̷̡̻̜̱̞̿͋͗͂͛̈́͐͘͞͡ȉ̛̤̪͎̘̤͕͊͑̓ċ̨̯̝̰̺͗̎͛̏͊̊̆t̟͎͖̗̹̭͕̺͑͒͐̚ͅi̶̧̡͓͔̲͚͂͌͌͌͘̕͟͝ő̸̺̻̭̩͉̼̣̰̹͛̽̌̆̉̄͐n̨̫̖̲̣̙̞̺̗̮̂̀̈͛̚

̶̡͉͇͉͍͉̩͎̦̋̊́̈̋͑͐ţ̠͕͙̮̆͂̇̔͐̀͂͝ớ̸͇͖̥̯͈̥̿͛̿̅̿̈̆r̨̙̩̪͇͇̩̊́͗̾̀͑̐̕ţ̴̧̰̹̺͍̗̮̦̍̆̽̚͘͘ũ̸̼̯̠̻̗͓̞̭̞͉͆͊̋̕r̼͇͕̙̬̃͆́̂̃̕̕͢ͅê͔͚̮̦͖͆̌͗̑͡͝

̴̛̘̮͇̟̗̟̇̋̑͛͜͝͝ẗ̶̨͔͉͓̭̥͕̝͚̀͆̒͐̔͆̚͢ǫ̶̢̙̙͓̪̼͎̈́̿̂̽̏̕͟͡r̶̡̧̠͓̦̤͙͗̃̈̐͘͟͡ͅm̶̩̬̰̣̮̣̉͐͛̕̕͟ę̢͇̮̻̿͊̌̂̉̓͌̉̆͜n̶͈̤̰͍̗͎͉͑̊̊̀͐̋̆͐͡͞t̡̥͎̺̻̼̽͐͗͊̔̀̿̑͢

̷̛̟̝̞̩̫̻̎̊̿̂̌̎̎͟͠ḍ̢̣͎̟̺̝͌̅̄̽̕ǐ̵̤̙̹̤͕̠̙̻̆͛̂͑̎̋̕ş̸͍͕͉͈̼̼̦͗̈͌̂̓͠c̸̙͈̭̞͇͆̐̉̽̅̐̿́͗̄͟ǫ̶̨̛̛̳͖͖̔̑̄̈̌̕ͅm̧̹̰̤͖̠̭̐̿̌̓̀̋͠͝f̶̡̹̥͎̘̲̅̍̑̾͑̇̑̚͟͜o̖̗͖̺̦̼̾̚͜͞͝͡͠r̟̟̲̭̘͕̃̇̎͛͞͝ţ̸̛͔̯͚̯͎̮̾̿͂̀̓̾͑̽̚

͓̪̣̱̺͉͔̀̿̍̽̋͛̍͘͘͘s̡͇̪̺̯̤͍̬̖̑̅̓͂̍̃͂̊͡o̵̮̟͈̪͔̻̮͔͍͗͛̂͋̌͑̓͒̀̕͜ṛ̨̖̝̯̀̽͊͑e̷̡̘̣̻͕̮͕̼͒̾̑͊̄̕͡͝ͅṉ̷̨̯̤̤̇̽̇̑̒̌͞ȩ̙̼͔̺̺̖̞̑͐̽̓̅͢͝s̴̪̲̱̝͔̞̥̮̳̃͒͑͟͞͡s̮̰̠̰̫͈̦̟̎̑̍͘͘͟͞

̞͔͉͓̣̳̟̈̅̊̿̽͒̄̅͂͟͟a̵̡̖̮̲̱̯̱̅͆̽͆̆͒͘͡c̨̜̩̱̱͕̘̀̊̇͂̂̅͌͑̇ͅh̹͉̙̤̖̱̖͊͒̀̔͘͝e̶̯͍͓̪͓̗̝̞̊̄̓̊̓͐̓̕͝

̙̪͈͈̺̥̩̝͛̾̅̍̌̕ͅa̛̺̹̻͒͊̊̅̽̈́̈́͜͠ͅc̠̲̹͇̬̮̓̓̾̆̏̈̋̈͢ḥ̢̧̨͈̦̤̆̋̆̓̈́̊͌̕̚͟ͅi̷̡̛̙̝̯͚̬̱͙͋̉͘̕͜n̶̦̲̺̼̪̯̗̾̂̃̅͐̎̌͟g̡͔͎̱̮̺̭̩͓̑̋͛̅̈̈́͜͝͠͞

̵̢̧̲̘̻̲͖̬̔̽̿̄̀͝ͅh̡̜̬͇̘̀͑̾̃͞u̶̝͉̞͇͆̎̉̅̍̉͐̾̀͟ṛ̡̰͚̺̀̃̍̇̓̍̓̌̈́̚ẗ̢̛͎̻̻̫̰͖̝͔̭́̊̇̈́̓͌̊͂͡

̵̡͎̮̱̺̏̋͌̑̑̿̾̎̎t̜͎̺̮̤̳̄̒̈́̽͛̚̚͠͞h͕̻̰̫̗̊͋̓̅͆̌̇̑r̵̢̭̘͖̟̙̝̩̳̿̐́͋̈̕ŏ̵̢̥͈̲͚͕̈́͑̃̆b̡̙͕̲̦̻̔͋͗̽͛̓̓̕͜͠

̻͚̼̳̙̠̝͂̃̒̓̀̌̽͟͠ͅţ̴̨̠̬͓̯̌̇͋̓̎͝h̺̱͕̰̬͒̔̊̍̿̿r̵̢̖̥̖̪̰̗̒̊̾͋̃̾̽͆̎ͅő̵̫̝͙̬̗͕̜̖̆͊̂̓͐̒̄̚͢͢ḃ̶̧̛̦̣̪̩̣͓̳͐̄̌b̸̛̖̹̙͔̪̦̗͊̓͑́̔͌̓͘ͅi̴̟̹̹̪̯͉̽͋͆͌̒̑̒ņ̶͇͙̺̥̓̑̓̈́͘g̻̘̝̰͚̽͗̿͆̾͞

̴̨̮̳̩̙̫̑͗̉̽͒̽͌͋͆ṡ̵̗̤̰̤̺͚̱̝̾̊͗̐͛͟m̴̨̢̧̡̛̼͙͔̟̮͒̓̎͆͘͟͠a̗̪̳͓̤̽̾̔̆͌r̴̲͚̪̗̲̟̜̹̃̅̽̅͆̿͠͞t̴̙̮̳͚̱̟͆̀̈͞͠i̶̧̫̲̩̭̤͊̽̿͛n̢̧̛̮̝̯͔̻͕̥̋̾͋̀̈́̎͊̂͢g̪̖̹̱̼̻̏͒̏͒̍͂̎̾͜

̷̯̜̟̼̗̊͒́͌̎̅͘͡͞p̶̢̡̧̠̲̱͓͇̊͛̎̕͢͟͝r̸̡͙̤͍̮͎̠̹͎̋͌̾̏͐͜͞i̴̧̫̪̣͖̥̗͎̘̿̒͗̓̅̈̚͢͡c̸̨͇͕̣̙̥̟̣̘̎̾̓̀̐̌͠͝k̷̛̰͉͔͚̟̂̊͂̽͒̒͐̾͠i̛̘̖̻̟̟͎̓̇̓̇͋n̘̮̳͍͈̘͚̫̻̉̽͌͟͞͠͞ĝ͍̗̪̙̤̪͌͗̂̓̈

̵̛̟̘̣̩̊̏͛̽͐͗̂͠ͅs̪̖̗̲̞̹̠̰̥͊̎̌̀͝͞t̟͉̲̤͔̹̿̿̉̋́ǐ̸̡̡̯̰͔̥͙͗̎̌̅͌͂̇̌͂n̪̠̭̘̼̘͔̔̂͐͒͒̔̿̒̚g̖͕̺̤̮͕̪̣͆͊̚͘

̨̞͎̟̝͍͇̳̝̫͆̾͊͝͠

̷̢̱̜̺̩͒̔̍̚͡ș̨̧̡̮̭̥͈̙̉̽̃͗͡͠p̨̼̼͙̳̪̋̊̓̐a̡̝̜͕͉̪͓̺͚͛͛͗̒͑͑͂̇͢͝͠ç̷̨͚̤̳̼̬̜͖̒̀͊̎̔͘͟ȩ͎͕̮̹̫̪͔̝̎̆̋̊̽͋̚

̛̻̜̬̬͉̗̙̆̈͆͂̂͝b̛͉̻̹̺͒͑͂͌̄̆́̽͡ͅl̨̡̨̛̛̙͈̯͕̯̑̆̅̇͒̐̕ȁ̷̦̜̳̮̥͉̝̓̋͌͌̔̒͞ñ̨̡̛̛̺̟͍̠̹͕͋͌̈́͐͝͝k̸̪̘̘̯͖͑̊̆̽̆͝͞ͅ s̫͙̝̭͕̳̯̓̐̇͘͟͝p̷̢̛͈͖̭̣͈͛̀̋̔͌͟͠a̯̭̗̭͚̬̤͕͇̓̄̎̿̈c̗͈̥̮̰͓̣̦̝͒̐̑͂̋̕ͅĕ̶̡̘͓͇̟̲̝̯͔͂͐̓̽͑̀

̧̯͇͔̙̳͋̌͋̂͗̏̍͜b̧̧̻̯̭̫̤͎͈̫̎̉͂̂̂l͍͈͖̻͇̺̙͑̑̾͌̓́͘ą̷̛̳̰̱͙̱̱͋́͊̓̌͑̊̉n̶̟̪̹̱͍̓̐̀̊̌̅͂̈k̖͉̗̤̞͎̖̞͕͆̈̃̓͂͞͞

̢̻̖͈̠̠̙̝͊̽̓̔̾̕͢v̵͉͙͚̤͉̖̦̉͑͑͐͐̇̃̉̽͠ͅa̲͖̦̻̖̪̒͗̈̍͒̐́͘c̶̡͕̫̖͎̠̐̎̉̔̐͋͘̕͟͠ų̟̤͇̝̬̒̒̀̅͌͊̈̉͡u̷̡̺͉̖͓̓̾̍̓̆̔̍̚m̷̢̧̩̙͍̈̄̋̈́̌͜

̜̮̗͚̘̲͆̒̆̑̽͘l͖͉͉͈̲͔͈̹͐̏̈́̀͋̚͠å͍̘̖͖̒͊̎̈́̚̕͢͟͟͜͠c͈͚̣̯̳̮̈́͂̐͊͋͗̄̈́́͘͟͟ų̹̬͚͔̮͉̅̈͛͌̂̑̽͘͢ͅn̘͖̟̬͔͖̝̼̅͐̓̋͗͌ȧ̡̛̗͙̻̠͚̘͉͉̍̉̓̑͗͘

̡͕̦̜̼͇̜͙̈́͛̇́̑̇̀͝͠h̡̩̹̗̞͉̭̗̯͒́̄͌͒̀̐o̧̧̬̰̞̙̤̣̯̤̅̓̇̕͞͠l̸̲̬̫̗͇̲̰͙̇̓̍̔̎̾͟͞e̡̨̢̛̘̠̫̲͚͐͂̋͌͊̾̕͜

̢͈͕̳̯̬̣͚̳͍͑̉̆͆̓̌̉͞ç̠̭̯̗͇͙͓̏͊̑̄̐̈̂͐a̛̻̙̙̰̭̖͋̾̆̔̌̃͂͝͡ͅv̵̭̣̮̥̝͒̋̒͐͗̄ͅĩ̖̭̟̬̹̾͐̾̑͟t̴̫̻̟̗̪͉͐͋̐̓̕͘͝y̢̢̹̬̰͎͋͊̿̑̓̕͢

̯͔̜̥̳̗̭̩̪͌̏̋͐͛͡͡ͅĉ̮͔̯̞̳̲͐̓̀́̍͑h̸̛̗̲̲̣̫̤͔̝̑̃̌̅̆͡a̡̮͔̖͙͔͖͗̈́̑̈͆ş̶̜̼͙̱̓̄̈̓͞m̛͙̣̞̪͙͛̅̃̌͐̍͟͠ͅ

̷̣̯͙̠͎̓̃̏̓͗͌͆͟ă̡̦̻̪̺͚͉̱̑͌̅͡b̡̗͉͔̱̱͉͂̒̀͒͛ͅy̸̡̯͙̙̤̮̮̟̘͗̅͐͆̿͒͜͡s̜̣͈̼̪͖̯͉̿͗̇͘s͖̬̪̼̙͇͐̏̀̊͟͟͢͞ͅ

̶̧̦͕̥̘̰̪͕̏̂̒̐͘̕g̵̯̤̪̰͚̘̙̭̤̍̈́͆̓͊͡ű̫̪̯̯̙͓̮͉̓̚ḽ̵̙͚̳̞̠͚͚̞͙̒͗͒̏̐f̘͓͕̲͓̈̓̅́͒̌̋́

̧͙̺͚̜̝̝̘̠̌̒̾̽͋͢p̡̛͙͉͈̠̰͕̩̻͑͛͆̀͗͆̊͟͞ị̷̯̞̫͙̫͈̎̿͐͂̎ͅt̥̺̹̪̔̽̔̑̓͜͟͡

̷̢̮̰͔̅̏͑̄̎̓̾̔͘͢h̰͍̥̝͉͍͋̾͗͗̿̈́̾͟i̩͕̫̩͖̲̤͌̂̈́̈́̎͐̚͜͝ǎ̰̝͙̫͔̗̖̹̽͐̋̄̌̐͝t̨̺̖̜͎͙͎̂͒͒̂̈́͢ṷ̴̻̞̝̯̤̑̓̌̿̎̄̈͘ś̴̛̳̦̼̳͆͐̇͜͜

̮̝͓͈̬͇͒͌̏̎̇̽̚͢ȩ̗̙̗̪̜̋̇͛̒̕͝͡m͕̖̘̰̲̗͕̆̐̃̐̈̄̎͢͡͝ͅp̼͕̪͉͇̠̅̒̋̓͡ͅt̞̖͙̯̳̪̱́͂̈̿̔̃̕͟͟͠ͅi̸͈̤̺̠̙̟͖͆̔͐̏̈͘͜ͅñ̸̜̮͙͓͍̮͙͓͗̊͑͌e̷̯̣͔̙̼̥̭̋̂͛͂̓͌͛͐͞͞s̶̛̘͚̙̘̬͂̀͛͗͐͐̋͘͢͞ş̠̫̘̹̱̼̬̏̇̉̇̚͡

̸̨̖͕͈͔̆̽̒̓̀͢͟v̷̝̯̜͙̤͉̣͎̫̇͑͂̒̾͊̆ͅṑ̹̫̮̦̰̥̣̐̍̏̃̒̋͐̄͟î̲̫̯̫̠̯̋͛̂̔͆̔͐̚͟d̵̢̡̢̛͔̣͓̖͔̼̪̓͋͌̆̍̀̂̚

.

.

The world around him is dark, he can see with a sense that is not sight. He has trouble comprehending the sight around him, and tries to ignore what he cannot understand. 

There are bright orbs of light, connected to one another with hair thin threads that glow. He looks down at the floor, but there is none. Cut threads seem to linger in the air around the orbs, Alfred reaches out to touch one old and lifeless, they are prickly.

**Alfred?** He turns around to where he heard the voice, but there is no body.

“Death? Where are you?” He calls, the sound causing the threads to move slightly, “Where am I?” he says slowly, entranced by the bright light. A pitch black line hovers in front of Alfred’s eyes, although all the others are bright white. His hand reaches up of its own accord, brushing against the th-

_ “My Dear…” she rasps out, her daughter’s face swimming before her eyes. She can’t focus …. But … there is a pressure on her hand. _

_ “Grandma, you’re going to be alright. Promise me, please!” the voice is childlike, but not her daughter. This is …. Anna. Anna who loves her lemon cookies and card games. She remembers, she was going to bake some of those. _

_ “I … love … you.” She whispers, trying to focus on the soulful brown eyes. She is so tired. _

_ Her eyelids feel so heavy, “Promise me!” She tries to lift up her arm, but it is so heavy. _

_ “I … can’t” _

_ “I love you.” The girl chokes out. Strange …. She thought her daughter was older. Dear Elizabeth squeezes her hand tighter. _

_ “I love you, my Dear.” She promises that, she can only promise that. Elizabeth is so young for her to be dying. _

_ She closes her heavy eyes, “-randma?” is a faint whisper in her ear. _

_ “GR-D-A” The bed is dragging her down, she does not resist. _

_ “Aaa”  _

_ Her eyes do not open again. _

He awakens to bright green eyes, vision swimming as his perspective switches.  **Alfred, are you alright?** He helps Alfred off of the nonexistent floor,  **This is a realm not for mortal eyes.**

“Who was that?” Alfred looks around, truly opening his mind to the surroundings, countless bright orbs shining like stars of the night sky. The complex web of hair-like threads that connect in ways he cannot comprehend, that geometrically should not be possible. It hurts to look at.

**One of the many humans of this world.** Death reaches to the nearest orb, connected to the black thread hanging from Alfred’s hands. **That is Amelia, a girl just ten years of age now. That was one of the many deaths she may or may not have.**

Alfred looks up to death, speechless. His hands drift over the thread in front of him, and back to Death. He looks like he belongs here far more than in the real world. The grey skin does not stand out so much, the hair takes on the appearance of the connecting threads, his eyes a green version of the floating lights.

**This is the realm between realms. Where fate tugs on mortal souls. Some are of the past, ones born and some that never were. The living intertwined with those who never may exist. This is every reality, but only one will ever take place.**

“And what about these?” he asks of the glowing strings flying around, of the black one resting in his hand. He looks around, the white strings outnumbering the black thousands and thousands to one. 

**They are ties between lives. The black ones are ties caused by death, or those that cause such.**

Alfred feels it strain his fingers, he feels how delicate it is. He doesn’t think.

SNAP

The two sides fall from his fingertips, floating in the air around. He watches as the amount of black strings multiply, he reaches out to touch one of these new ties.

_ “HEL-MMMPPPHHH!” she can’t speak, mouth wrapped with duct tape. Her boyfriend stands there angry as he ever has been. She is more terrified than ever. _

_ “You deserve this, you know. Amelia.” He spits, ropes bind her hands, “It’s not my fault.” _

_ She glares at him, making futile attempts to free herself. _

_ “It should be a quick death,” she glares harder, “Not really, but it isn’t the worst.” _

_ “What am I saying, you DESERVE this!” He gropes around the room for her lighter, for the cigarettes she used to share with him. _

_ “Mmhh. Nnn-uhhh” She mumbles, hands doing nothing but getting ropeburn. _

_ He growls, “Cheating whores get what they deserve.” _

_ She watches him pour brandy on her fluffy carpet, detached. She watches him light a cigarette. _

_ “If god wills it, I will get away with this.” He comments, kneeling next to the spilt drink, hand on the lit cigarette, “I am not a sinner.” He comments, but has not dropped the light. _

_ “MMMMMMMMMMMMMM” She screams in a sort of hum, last way to free herself. The brandy seeps into her socks.  _

_ “I know, I know.”  _

_ “I know. I know. I know. I know. I know.” His voice is frantic, “I know. I know. I know. I know. I know. I KNOW!” _

_ With that he drops the cigarette, alcohol igniting a wave. It rolls, digging its fiery claws into her foot.  _

Alfred awakes from the vision, to the disorienting reality where there is no floor, no left, and no right. That was a vision of the same person, Amelia, “What did I just do?” he asks

**You changed the fates, the first mortal to bend time.** Death holds his hand over the bright orb, he glows along with it like a pulsing heartbeat.  **The most likely timeline is one where she dies young.**

“What about me, and my friends? Are nations here too?” Alfred asks, death gestures to a blindingly bright orb that attaches to everything else in a way he can’t comprehend as possible. A way that hurts to think about. Something is so alluring about the light.

**Yes.**

“You said, you said you wouldn’t let me die.”

**Yes.**

The American personification stops talking, looking back up to the orb that must be one of the nations, blindingly bright. He reaches out, and suddenly he is there, hands just a few inches from the glowing sphere. This one is bigger than the rest, the size of a basketball instead of a fist. 

This one has no black threads connecting, but they float around severed from the body. This one is bigger, brighter, more brilliant than all the rest. It’s his, this is his fate connecting to all around him. He reaches out to bring his palm to the glow, but hesitates.

“Death?” He tries to breathe in, but finds no relief. Death does not appear to him, “DEATH!” He shouts, with no effect. “DAD!”

  
  


\--

He gains awareness up slowly, mind foggy as if woken up during a dream. The sun is obnoxiously bright for a December morning. His body arms and legs, but the right heel burning in agony.

The memories come back slowly, the day before yesterday Pearl harbor was attacked, yesterday he declared war, yesterday afternoon …. 

He doesn’t remember anything later in the day yesterday, a concerning fact likely due to another attack of some sort. He sits up in order to check his wound. The bandages are bled through, so he hastily applies more and takes the medicine left on his desk.

Alfred spots something on his leg when he rolls up the pant leg slightly, the faint edges of a word. He pulls it up farther, more words. He looks at the other leg, more words. Letters crudely etched into his skin in his own handwriting, with several distinct messages that can be made out.

‘ **Don’t let Russia win. COLD WAR. NUKES.** ’

‘ **Get rid of NIXON’**

**‘MARSHALL plan good’**

**‘Stop spread COMMUNISM’**

With more searching his arms bear even more messages, leaving bloody scabs in their wake.

**‘SEPARATE GERMANY, PRUSSIA’**

**‘Britain is totally Dead! Lets go get drinks to celebrate!’**

**‘Save KOREA!’**

**‘JUNE 6 1944. Save FRANCE’**

He strips down the rest of his clothing, checking all over himself for more words. But they only adorn his legs and arms.

Even his state of mind Alfred thinks to write these down, reaching for the pen laying innocently on his desk. But when he tries to use it, the pen is clogged with blood and skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't updated in awhile, so I hope you all like this :) I recently wrote a fic that I am really proud of, you should check it out, "Out Of Place" https://archiveofourown.org/works/27569314/chapters/67436515.
> 
> As always I'd love to write any fanfiction requests you have, and please comment! Have a nice day!

**Author's Note:**

> Id love if you commented! This was just an idea I had based on that one scene where America and Death talk to each other, and I thought it would be really cute to do a sort of lifetime story with Death and America!


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